


lay in the atmosphere

by lacecat



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Flashbacks, Inception AU, M/M, Minor Violence, Multi, Sexual Content, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-07-01 03:10:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 35,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15765393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacecat/pseuds/lacecat
Summary: “I should say, then, that your records are not entirely complete,” the woman says, and her entire face moves like a stone cast into a pond of still water. “My name is John Silver, and I’m an excellent forger.”In between the moments that it takes for the light to flicker above them, the woman next to him is replaced. Flint finds himself looking right at a dark-haired man now - slightly taller, but his gaze is no less piercing as he keeps his grasp on Flint’s arm, if anything getting closer to him as the train sways.Flint forces himself to stay still, holding his gaze even as Silver’s blue eyes dip down to his mouth. “Mr. Silver,” he says, evenly, as the man's mouth curls up like he knows he's right. “I’ve heard much about you.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this has been my fic baby for a while!!! finally publishing at least the first part in hopes that that will spur me on to, you know, actually get it done
> 
> idk what else to tell you other than i have lots of feelings about all of them and what inception could have been
> 
> find me on tumblr @jamesbarlow!

THEN

 

Flint glances up at the peeling white letters of the sign above. Down here, the sounds of the city are nearly muted, reduced to the background cacophony of echoing, dripping sounds, the static over the speakers, the overlapping voices from the gathering crowd. 

 

Down the platform a little, a young woman checks her phone with a bored expression as she blows a perfect bubble with her gum. Closer, a man in a well-cut suit bites out something in a language he can’t quite place to the woman traveling next to him, gripping onto his suitcase with white knuckles. His companion's patent leather heels tap against the metal grate below them, but then the sound is overwhelmed by arriving train.

 

The train slows to a screeching halt in front of them, the brakes blowing air up onto the platform. Flint boards along with the crowd, pushing beside some standing passengers to get to the back of the car. His shoes stick to the smooth surface of the floor as he stops to hold onto one of the poles, the metal worn down by many past hands.

 

As the train moves again, the lights flicker overhead. He feels the cool metal of the pole slide against his wrist, and before long, the sensation is joined by the brush of a hand against his knuckles. “I know you,” the woman says from beside him, her vowels raised and round as she meets his look with a slight tilt to her head. 

 

“I don’t think so,” Flint says. He makes as if he’s going to move away down the car, but then the woman’s fingers are looped around his wrist, preventing him from moving any more. 

 

“Guess again,” she tells him, and as he turns to look at her, she snaps the gum in her mouth, one of her perfectly penciled eyebrows rising high on her forehead. 

 

Flint looks up to the glint in her eyes. He’ll admit, he thought it would have taken more time for them to get to this point. “Solomon Little,” he says. 

 

“Interesting,” the woman says. “I go to great efforts to keep my name out of your line of work, Mr. Flint.” Her accent remains solid, but there’s nearly a slip to her cadence - of course, since Flint’s called her out, it could be on purpose. “Since you didn’t bother to disguise yourself, is this your dream, then?” 

 

“My colleague was the one who gave me your name,” he says. "She told me that you’re among the best forgers that there are.” 

 

“Well, you can tell your colleague that’s false,” Little says. “I am the best. Now, how did you find me?” 

 

“I have very thorough records.” 

 

“I have no doubt you’re a very thorough man.” The words are accompanied by the slide of her fingers up his arm, reaching under his sleeve like she’s digging for something else. “People don’t usually recognize me when I’m hidden like this.”

 

He pulls back ever so slightly to look at her. “It’s a good forge.”

 

“But?"

 

“You bear a remarkable resemblance to a news anchor in Paris,” Flint tells her. “One that I doubt would be found in a place like this. You're just unlucky I happen to know her face."

 

“Just a resemblance?"

 

“The nose is a little long."

 

Little smirks, the gesture odd on her face. “A small aesthetic change. You like it?” Her finger traces up and down the bare skin of his forearm. Beneath their feet, the train sways as if in sync. “You see, I too have excellent records. Now, depending on how much time you have left on your timer, this could become a very interesting train ride before we go our separate ways.” 

 

Flint leans in again, enough so that he can see how the color around her irises darkens at the very edges, the purposeful movement of her mouth as she looks up at him coyly. 

 

He says, “Who are you working with now?” 

 

That makes her blink, and as quickly as she had gotten close, Little moves away, her face smoothing out. “You were hoping to catch me alone?” 

 

“Did you not expect that?” 

 

“You’ll find I was prepared for this, the moment I heard that your people were looking for me,” Little says lightly, but Flint can see the gun that appears in her hand. It’s subtle enough so that only when he can feel the press of the muzzle against his stomach that a couple of the projections around them start giving them funny looks. “Now, I would love to give you the benefit of the doubt, but I do believe our time is up.” 

 

Flint reaches up, but his hand stops midway when she clicks the safety off. “You’d shoot me before you hear me out? I would have thought you would know the consequences of that by now.” 

 

“If only it really was your dream,” Little says. “But I do believe I recall this particular train line. You must have really done your research." 

 

She turns the gun to point it at herself. “Easy,” Flint says, low, as she stares up at him like a challenge. “You’re not the mark.”  

 

“I think you’ll find I’m rather difficult to get rid of anyways.” Little looks at him, considering. “Tell me - was it Paxton you paid, then, to get into my head?”

 

“I’m here to offer you a job,” Flint tells her, and her eyebrows rise again, though the gun doesn’t move. “One that even you might find a challenge."

 

The lights go off and on once again over their heads, as they pass through the tunnel far longer than it should be. “And what if I’m not for hire?” 

 

“I think you’re going to want to hear me out,” Flint says, and he leans in again, to say right into her ear, “But if it’s all the same to you, neither of us want my associates to hear just how much I’m about to offer you.” 

 

Her breath catches a little like the beginning of a laugh, and when he moves back, Flint can see her eyes flick past him, at the man and the woman sitting in the plastic seats a little way down. “So you think I’ll go back into the business for just any price?” Little asks. "I’ve heard you’re involved in some rather dangerous work. I like my comfort.” 

 

“Can’t safety be bought?” 

 

“Depends on what you’re offering. I’d imagine a man of your calibre understands my needs.” She presses even closer, more gun than air between them. “And what are you offering?” 

 

“First,” Flint says, “I want to make sure you’re the person I’ve been looking for.” He glances down at her meaningfully. “Then we’ll discuss the job topside if I find you qualified for the task.” 

 

“Do all you point men have such a distaste for foreplay?” 

 

“It comes with the profession.” 

 

“I should say, then, that your records are not entirely complete,” the woman says, and her entire face moves like a stone cast into a pond of still water. “My name is John Silver, and I’m an excellent forger.”  

 

In between the moments that it takes for the light to flicker above them, the woman next to him is replaced. Flint finds himself looking right at a dark-haired man now - slightly taller, but his gaze is no less piercing as he keeps his grasp on Flint’s arm, if anything getting closer to him as the train sways. 

 

Wisps of curly hair slip out from behind his ears, as the man leans forward so that Flint can feel his breath on his neck, the slight rasp of Silver’s mouth as he speaks. “I’m very good at judging others, Mr. Flint, and I think this might be much more to your taste.” 

 

Flint forces himself to stay still, holding his gaze even as Silver’s blue eyes dip down to his mouth. “Mr. Silver,” he says, evenly, as the man's mouth curls up like he knows he's right. “I’ve heard much about you.” 

 

Silver grins, and if he thought that the woman from before looked natural, it’s evident that this here is the man he’s looking for, the way that he looks comfortable and settled as this that he didn’t even know it was lacking until he was looking right at him. 

 

“Likewise,” Silver says, and he shoots himself in the head.

 

Flint hears the sound of crunching metal as the train starts to fold into himself. It slows to a stop at the next platform that’s rapidly approaching, as people start to clamor around him, some of them being crushed by the compartment folding into itself, the poles being warped and puncturing the metal. There’s some horrible screeching sound as the dream collapses, but Flint doesn’t flinch, even as the world around him starts to crumble away. 

 

He glances out the window on some instinct, feeling eyes on his head. He sees someone standing on the platform, facing the window as it goes by in that split second - but it can’t - this isn’t even his dream - 

 

But before he can do anything, the train veers off the tracks with a screech. The pole snaps, and it strikes him right in the head, as the train hits the wall.

 

Flint wakes up with a start. Next to him, Silver’s blue eyes are already on him, his hand slowly rubbing up and down where the PASIV line was injected. As Flint’s eyes meet his, Silver gives him a smirk, but there’s something approaching thoughtful in his eyes as he looks right at him. Like Flint’s confirmed something without even opening his mouth. 

 

 

  
•••

 

NOW

 

When Flint wakes up, he’s already clutching the sheets around him. His heart’s pounding like it’s going to burst through his chest, and he can still feel the sticky, humid air like it’s clawing on his skin. He can still feel the hand sliding right out of his, nails against his palm -

 

The remnant images from the dream blur on his eyelids in a horrible wash of color when he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to scrub away the memory. When he's finally able to release his grip on the sheets, he reaches over to fumble into the drawer beside his bed.

 

His fingers touch the small book, and he pulls it out as if it’s going to slip away any moment. The worn leather of the cover is some small comfort already, and Flint traces the ridges on the edges before flipping it open.

 

The words that are the confirmation he needs, and although he lets out a long exhale, his hands don’t stop shaking as he traces the handwriting over and over again, his fingertip catching on the paper’s grain every so often.

 

Eventually, Flint slowly closes the book and keeps it on his chest like it’s some anchor to this bed. He doesn’t go back to sleep, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling of the cheap motel room until the early dawn sun peeks through the shutters on the window.

 

 

  
•••

 

 

  
“You look dead,” Anne informs him the moment he walks into the warehouse. She looks like she's inspecting the piping on one of the PASIVs, the tubing stretched out on a folding table, a soldering gun in her hand. When Flint doesn’t reply, she grunts and goes back to her work, attaching something to the base compartment.

 

On the other side of the table, Max is seated, reading through a stack of paper. Glancing over, Flint sees Madi and Jack discussing something on the far side of the room -  but the last member of the group is nowhere to be found.

 

That is not unexpected, but certainly a problem. Flint can already feel a headache forming, but instead of inquiring after the man’s whereabouts, though, he addresses the two women, “The compound?"

 

Anne jerks her head over to one of the other briefcases. “Jack’s been working on it all night."

 

“It is a similar compound to the regular Somnacin, but this should have a better reaction with the sedatives you requested,” Max finishes. Her eyes linger on him for a moment - although his suit is clean and unwrinkled, he knows he’s got bags under his eyes that won’t go away at this point  - before she continues, “Jack and Madi are discussing the best dosages for the environment in the dream.”

 

Flint looks back at the two, where Jack seems to be gesturing wildly, and Madi’s arms are crossed over her chest as she replies with something that makes Jack run his hands through his hair. “And the tubing system?”

 

“In progress,” Anne says, but doesn’t clarify any further. She’s always been short in terms of explanations behind her work, but she had, after all, pioneered the new improved PASIV design, so he tends to give her the benefit of doubt.

 

Flint nods, and he leaves them be.

 

Inside one of the storage rooms he’d requisitioned as an office, Flint sets down his briefcase on the cheap desk. He doesn’t dare leave papers lying about anymore, so the security is worth the hassle of hauling around everything with him.

 

If Jack has somehow managed to manage to fix the compounds, he needs to make sure that they’ll be ready with these new blueprints, and so he throws himself into the work for the next few hours.

 

 

  
•••

 

 

  
Silver comes in past ten, holding a half-empty coffee cup. “I have an idea,” he proclaims, leaning on the entrance of Flint’s office, “And it’s going to involve some trust and monetary influence on your part.”

 

“You’re late,” Flint says, without looking up from his notebook where he’s sketching an idea for Madi. “The work day starts at eight.”

 

“This isn’t exactly a corporate setting,” Silver says as he kicks out the brick that’s been propping open the door. He makes his way to the folding chair opposite of Flint’s desk - usually covered in files, unfortunately now empty so now the man can sit in it as the door swings shut. He nods to a stack of papers on the desk. “That my intel?”

 

“It’s not just yours,” Flint corrects, erasing part of his labyrinth, then frowns at him. “You can’t be late and then demand money.“

 

“Oh, you won’t be bothered with my delayed arrival once you’ve seen what I found,” Silver says. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a thumbdrive. “Remember that horrid security system?”  

 

“Just tell me what it is.”

 

Silver swings the drive between his thumb and pointer finger. “Want to take a peek instead?” He tosses it neatly at Flint, who catches it. “I cracked it this morning.”

 

While Flint plugs it into his laptop, Silver stands up and comes around to the back of the desk. Flint would tell him off, only then his eyes are caught by the files that pop up instead. “Are these - “

 

“Let’s just say, it’s going to be significantly less difficult for Berringer to think he’s in his worse nightmare now that we know what it is,” Silver says as Flint scrolls through the documents. “The company’s going under. In about six months - “

 

“They’ll be bankrupt,” Flint finishes. “These are from their offices?”

 

“Right from my contact,” Silver says, leaning to look at the screen right over Flint’s shoulder. “He was rather willing to blow the operation once I ensured that his stocks would be properly invested in a more successful company. What’s more, is that these haven’t been sent to corporate yet. Only Berringer has seen them.”

 

“Did you tell Madi?“

 

“She’s already set up software to delay it from sending in case Berringer tries to ease his consciousness, and alert us in case we need to move up the timetable,” Silver says, draining his coffee. “And how are we with him?”

 

“Berringer’s loyal to Rogers, but with this, we know we could adjust the situation so that he’s afraid of Rogers reading the failure as betrayal,” Flint says. “We have Rogers confront him on the company’s failure, separate him from operations - “

 

“We have Berringer convinced to go to Vincent Raja’s company,” Silver says. “Vincent will be rather pleased with this turn of events, wouldn’t you say?”

 

“He’ll be even more pleased when he pays us and we can go our separate ways for good,” Flint says, already mentally calculating what they’ll have to do now. “How is your forge of Rogers?”

 

“A little too easy for my own comfort,” Silver says. “Once Jack finishes that compound, we’ll be able to test it out in the final run.”

 

“We need to start running through it today,” Flint says, and he turns off his laptop in favor of pulling out the blueprints that Madi had given him yesterday. “Even with the sedative, Berringer's subconscious will still be far more dangerous - “

 

“I’ll round the troops before I head out again,” Silver says. “While I’m at it, just for fun - when’s the last time you slept?”

 

“What do you care?” Flint asks, flipping through the papers. “Tell Jack that I want him done with the compound by five. We’ll run it then.”

 

There’s a snort. “Right away, sir,” Silver says rather bitingly, and he’s gone by the time Flint looks up again.  

 

 

  
•••

  
THEN

 

 

Flint is going to kill him.

 

He’s going to kill John Silver, and that means he’s going to have to forgo returning to his apartment for a few weeks until the inevitable backlash dies down, and he doesn’t even fucking care.

 

After he had made sure that he was as qualified as his contact had suggested, they had negotiated payment. Then it was only a matter of signing a few papers (illegal aspects of dream-sharing aside, there’s something to be said about being prepared in case they do become legitimate) until Silver was contracted for the job in Buenos Aires. 

 

Silver seems to have an uncanny ability to know just how to irritate Flint at any given moment. He integrates himself with the team with a sort of ease that Flint has come to expect of forgers in particular, and since the team now likes him more than Flint anyways, he turns his efforts into questioning every single one of Flint’s orders. 

 

“You can’t kill him,” Hal tells Flint calmly when he comes into the office. Hal Gates has known Flint for several years, and he seems to know just when Flint is about to snap and kill the new forger, or so it seems. “We’ve already paid him the advance.” 

 

“He’s disrespectful, and not as talented as he thinks he is,” Flint snaps. This morning, Flint had had a rather…. unproductive meeting.

 

(“The mark’s going to believe that his sister’s boyfriend is up to no good, so why not play into that?” Silver questions, sprawled out in his chair. “It seems just too cautious to skirt around it.”

 

The mark in question is an older, wealthier man, and he's in the middle of determining the receivers of a large inheritance, one of whom might be the sister’s only child. The sister had hired them to find out who else is in the running - a relatively easy job, all considering. Let it be known that people being petty is what keeps them all in business. 

 

“Because if the mark’s guard goes up, as it happens with people you dislike, we have angry projections at every corner,” Flint says, “Like I was saying, if we focus on the assistant - “ 

 

“But we know he talks often to her, and the boyfriend might come up anyways,” Silver says, leaning forward. “Why not just come out with what we suspect? We have him talk to the boyfriend, and realize that the money could give the kid and the sister freedom from the boyfriend.” He turns his expectant gaze on the others in the room.  

 

“You don’t have nearly enough information on the sister’s boyfriend to even begin a forge,” Flint points out. “The mark might decide that he doesn’t want the money anywhere near the boyfriend, and we might even accidentally convince him to leave the nephew off of the will. That would be difficult to explain to the client, I would think.” 

 

Silver laughs, too loud, and Flint’s fingers curl tightly around his pen. “The mark’s a nice man. He wouldn’t do that. “

 

“Oh, and we should just follow you on your guess?” Flint throws back. Not one person in this room will meet his eye, other than Silver, who has a smirk slowly growing on his face. “You’ve done -  what, two days of surveillance, and you just think that he wouldn’t?” 

 

“It’s my professional opinion, yes,” Silver says “What’s more, I think it upsets you that I only needed two days to come up with a better plan.” 

 

“It’s not a better plan, it’s not even a plan,” Flint tells him curtly, and that makes the smirk disappear. “Does anyone else have any suggestions?”

 

It had rendered the rest of the meeting rather icy towards him, and Silver had stormed out towards the end, muttering something about tyrants.)

 

“I think you don’t trust him because he’s good at what he does,” Hal says, rather mildly. “Unless he’s kidnapped your dog or something, I’d put my money on that.” 

 

Flint feels like laughing in his face, but he settles for a sort. “You’re suggesting I’m jealous?” 

 

“I think you can’t place him, and you’re not used to that,” Hal says, pushing his chair out. “Just focus on the job, and the hefty paycheck coming your way, yeah?”

 

Hal’s words hit a little too close to home, because part of the reason Flint feels something under his skin itching whenever he’s near Silver is just that, because he can’t place him. Silver flirts and prods and does everything to drive Flint insane, but he is good at his job. He hasn’t seen better forges in a very long time, but it's hard to appreciate that skill when he wants to wring Silver's neck every time he sees him.

 

“You look like you’re about to have a heart attack,” Silver tells him later when they’re all going over Joshua’s sketches, those damned blue eyes fixed right on Flint’s scowl, like they hadn't been arguing just an hour ago. “Too many steak dinners, or are you just that frustrated?” 

 

Flint meets Hal’s eyes over the blueprints, and he resolutely ignores him. He can be a professional.

 

 

 

•••

  
NOW

 

 

“Poole Industries,” the woman says in a monotonous tone, “Is one of the fastest growing global technology corporations, and our state-of-the-art building reflects our commitment to being on the forefront of invention…”

 

From the back of the group, Silver lifts his hand to adjust his hair, effectively shielding his face as they walk past the security guards stationed near one of the lab entrances. For such prestige, he thinks to himself, Rogers’s company has rather lax security if he was just allowed to walk into their facilities. He personally wouldn’t let himself even walk by the parking garage.

 

As the tour guide drones on about their profits in the past month, Silver takes note of the employees walking by. Some he recognizes from the personnel files that Max had, others he made note of their features. It’ll be best if Berringer is surrounded by people he vaguely recognizes so that he’ll be comfortable, without feeling the need to talk to any of them, of course.

 

One of the women on the other side of the group has a bit of a coughing fit, and he takes advantage of the tour guide’s eyes on her to slip into one of the stairwells. His shoes echo in the well as he makes his way down two sets of stairs, and then once Silver is confident that no one is following him, he slips off his suit jacket.

 

The lab coat that he’d stashed last week is still crumpled up in the corner of the janitor’s closet. Silver pulls it on as he enters the main hallway of the labs, eyes adjusting to the fluorescent light overhead, adjusting his stolen ID badge.

 

“Morning,” he says, bland but cheerful to one of the technicians going by. The woman nods back at him, and he manages to slip into the labs with another few scientist-looking types, one of whom hold the door for him with a small smile.

 

The camera in his glasses should be recording all of this, but Silver keeps a careful note of the people who pass by once he plops himself into one of the break room chairs. Poole Industries is famous for their engine technology, something to do with some microchip - Silver hasn’t bothered himself with learning the specifics, but he knows he’s supposed to be impressed by it.

 

He leaves it to Flint to have aneurysms over the details and all. Silver thinks about the red tinge to Flint’s eyes this morning and he has to keep himself from rolling his eyes. For a man whose job revolves around dreaming, he certainly doesn’t take much of his work home with him.

 

People mill in and out of the break room, and only a few of them pay him even the slightest amount of attention. Silver chews on a sandwich he stole from the fridge and for all intents and purpose, makes himself look like the standard beleaguered employee.

 

“Something about that gala, eh,” some man from the other side of the table says to his companion, who sighs in response. Silver looks up from where he had been aimlessly scrolling down his phone, keeping his face in an expression of pleasant, muted interest as he tunes into the conversation.

 

“I’ve got Utley breathing down my neck to get the presentation done already, and Berringer wants it for the weekend?” the man complains. “Outrageous.”

 

“That bloody gala,” the other man says as if commiserating. “They’re not inviting us, mind you - “

 

Silver tries to think about mentions of any galas. “Pardon me,” he says, as they look over at him, "You’re working on Utley’s project?"

 

The man waves his hand. “Yeah, the new hybrid. I’m working on the fuel pumps, right, what I’m being paid to do, and the boss wants me to crunch the numbers ahead of time so he can present it at this event.”

 

“It’s a nightmare,” his friend says. “Plus, isn’t it a little insensitive - I mean, one of them died in a car accident, didn’t she?”

 

“Shit, I remember when the story broke. Who would’ve thought that the Hamiltons would all be dead by now?” He crunches on a chip, and Silver very nearly drops his phone. He very carefully makes sure his face betrays nothing as the man continues with a careless wave, “Would’ve thought someone higher up would’ve had more tact.”

 

“If they’re going to be pushing their business at some fundraiser held in her honor, then I think they’ve just thrown all the propriety right out of the book,” the man grumbles, then looks over at Silver who’s still watching them. “You - you one of the new lab techs?"

 

“I’m the new assistant for Jim,” Silver replies, sliding a worried look on his face. “Actually, I better get going - he’s a nightmare to work for.”

 

“Good luck,” the man says, and Silver gives him a quick smile before he leaves.

 

He makes his way to the stairwell, down into the basement and out using a loading dock. He’s out of Poole Industries in under three minutes, and normally he’d take the moment to compose a text that would a thinly concealed attempt to rile Flint up, but now he doesn’t - he can't.

 

Silver makes sure he's breathing in and out regularly by the time he rejoins the bustle of people out on the street, blending in with all the other faces as his mind races. The others will be expecting him soon, so he shoves his thoughts to the back of his head as he walks down the avenues, forcing himself to stay on task for now.

 

 

 

•••

THEN

 

 

They’re in a middle of a heat spell in the city, the sort where the humid air seems to cling onto skin tighter than any clothing. The sensation follows him into the dream, so that even though it’s an overcast on the field he’s dreamed, he can feel sweat collecting in the small of his back as he practices his forge of the mark’s sister. 

 

Just when he’s considering exiting the dream and finding a fan somewhere topside, a woman appears. She looks right at him like she hadn’t just intruded into the dream, raising one rather striking eyebrow.

 

“Mr. Silver, I presume,” she says as he looks at her, despite the warning signs screaming in the back of his mind at her sudden appearance. “Pardon the intrusion, but your colleague told me that there was no need to wake you up for this.” 

 

Silver morphs back into his own face. “And you are?” He conjures a gun behind his back, anyways.

 

In the blink of an eye, Flint appears. He moves his arm a little, probably some reaction from when he put in the PASIV line, adjusting to their surroundings. “Silver, this is Madi Scott, the architect we’re consulting,” Flint says promptly, as the woman steps forward to shake his hand. He makes the gun disappear, as Flint adds, “She needs the blueprints for the mark’s house.” 

 

Her hand is smooth and cool in his, her grip firm. One of the benefits of dreams, in Silver’s experience, is that they tell far more than even his trained eye can in the waking world. What one sees and projects onto their own form can be deciphered to no end, and just like anyone else, Silver takes a look at Madi Scott while they’re shaking hands to see what he can collect. 

 

Her shoes are impeccably clean in the dream - not uncommon for architects who favor control and neat lines - but she’s also holding herself like Flint does, remnants of military training. Silver drags his eyes back up to her face, where she looks like she’s waiting for him to finish his thoughts - and possibly let go of her hand, on that thought.

 

“Ms. Scott, you’re quite famous in our world,” Silver says, finally letting go. “I heard about that job in Tokyo - did you really trap your mark for six hours?"

 

"Mr. Silver -“ Flint starts, but Madi just makes a small, amused noise like she’s giving Silver the benefit of her attention, crossing her arms in front of her. 

 

“It was six hours on the first level,” Madi says. “Now, the documents, if you will?”

 

“They’re in a safe under the chair,” Silver says. “If you would humor me - is that a Capetown lilt I hear?”

 

“You must have a good ear,” Madi says. “You’re wrong, but it is a decent guess.” 

 

“I try my best to be decent,” Silver tells her, and he feels rewarded when the corner of her mouth twitches ever so slightly. “Isn’t that right, Flint?” 

 

“Something like that,” Flint says flatly. “The code to the safe, if you will.”

 

“Oh, you and I both know that it’s bad practice to just give out that sort of information,” Silver replies, just to see his jaw clench ever so slightly. “What if I need to hide something from you?” 

 

“I can wait,” Madi tells them - well, more Flint. “Mr. Silver, once you’re finished here, I will be waiting topside.” She produces a gun, and Silver barely hears the shot before she disappears. 

 

“Well, I must say I’m impressed,” Silver says, and when Flint doesn’t disappear as well, he attempts, “How long have you known her?” 

 

“For some time,” Flint says, looking around at the scenery. “Joshua needed the assistance, and she’s the best architect I know.” 

 

Silver is about to press more, when Flint asks abruptly, “This field - is this your memory of it?” 

 

 Silver looks around too, at the grassy plains that go as far as the eye, the green-brown-grey colors of it all shifting as the blades of grass move in the wind. In the distance, there’s a car zooming by, a bright red dot just barely visible against the white of the sky. Admittedly, it’s been a while since Silver’s crafted a dream entirely by himself, but he thinks it’s pretty good. 

 

“Kansas. Went once when I was younger,” he says. “I’ve never seen land so flat - and that strange emptiness of it all, well. I thought about it the other day."

 

“Never dream entirely from memory,” Flint tells him tersely, and Silver is rather taken aback as Flint’s eyes dart back and forth, even though there are no projections within sight, now looking more and more irritated at the scene around them. “That’s how you get caught in a dream, and if you’re stuck like that, you won’t even believe your own totem after a certain point.” 

 

Silver thinks to himself that given the personal nature of his totem, it would have to take much more for him to not believe he’s in a dream. But the way that Flint throws the words at him makes a rare burst of anger flare up in his chest. “I know the risk,” Silver snaps right back, and Flint’s eyes narrow. “This is far from my first dream-sharing job, and I don’t appreciate your tone, thank you very much.” 

 

“Then you should know the dangers of it,” Flint tells him. Around them, the sky darkens perceptibly, the wind picking up and making Flint’s auburn hair flare up around his face as he jerks his head back. In the distance, the car changes directions, the faint sounds of the chugging engine now audible as the wind takes it to them. “I didn’t take you for the foolish type, but if that’s the case, take this as a warning.” 

 

“Don’t talk to me like I’m some child - “ 

 

Flint scoffs. “How long have you been involved in dream sharing? A handful of years? You can’t even begin to comprehend what you don’t know.” 

 

“Try twenty,” Silver says coldly before he can think better of it. Before Flint can ask any more questions, he takes the gun back in his hand, and the last thing he sees is Flint’s eyes still slightly wide. It’s more than a little gratifying, as his eyes open up back in reality. 

 

Out of the dream, Madi has the tiniest scar above her left eyebrow, but otherwise appears exactly the same as in the dream. It’s a remarkable amount of self-perception, Silver thinks to himself, as he spins the dial on his safe, getting the papers out and handing them to Madi.

 

He doesn’t look at Flint. 

 

“Mrs. Weston, welcome to Buenos Ares,” Silver says, and he leaves them. 

 

 

  
•••

  
NOW

 

 

At a quarter to five, Flint heads out of his office. The members of the team are in the main part of the warehouse, all surrounding the table with the PASIVs on it, evidently expecting this early start.

 

There’s a screeching sound as the doors open, and he glances over to see Silver enter the warehouse, pulling the door shut behind him. He must just be coming back from the headquarters now, and as he meets Flint’s eyes, there’s something strange, twisted in his expression.

 

Flint raises an eyebrow, but Silver just gives the tiniest of shrugs in response. It must be unrelated, if he’s not bringing it up, so Flint turns back to the others. “Is it ready?” he asks, reaching down to unbutton his jacket.

 

Jack exchanges a look with Max. “It should be,” he says, which really wasn’t the level of confidence Flint would like. Still, he drapes his jacket over the back of a chair, working on rolling up his sleeves next as the man continues, “This level of sedation - “

 

“The tubing should fix the dosing problem,” Anne cuts in. “If you start feeling like your chest is about to burst, then get out.”

 

“All right,” Flint says, “We’ll go in on my level.” He holds his arm out, but Silver makes some sound that makes both of them look over at him.

 

“Perhaps we should use Jack’s head,” Silver says, and he crosses his arms as the rest of them look at him. “If we’re just testing the compound tonight, not a full run through, we don’t need yours.”

 

“We agreed that we would use Flint’s,” Madi says.

 

“Plans change,” Silver says. “If we’re just running through, we can use Max, get a better grasp on editing the terrain - "

 

“We need to keep conditions as similar as they will be,” Flint says. “My mind will be the most militarized here, so it’s only rational to prepare that way. Unless there’s something else - ?”

 

After a moment, Silver shakes his head. “Just a suggestion,” he says, and his eyes are on Flint for a long moment before he looks away. “Keeping us all on our toes, and all that.”

 

“Jack, you’re watching the timer,” Flint says, pushing away any other thoughts in preparation for going under. He’ll talk to Silver later. “Max, I want to try the downtown. Anne, Madi, you’ll be observing, looking for any places to fix. Silver, you’ll be doing the test runs with Rogers in mind.”

 

They move to sit in the reclining chairs, Jack at the center near the device. Flint injects the PASIV into his arm, then leans back in the chair, getting comfortable as he waits. The rest follow suit, Silver inserting his line in last before he lays back.

 

His eyes meet Flint’s, but instead of looking away, they blink once, twice, looking right at him across the circle. For not the first time, Flint wonders why it’s always Silver looking at him when they do this - why after everything, it’s like he can’t trust Flint, can't take his eyes off him for even an instant before they’re both plunged below.

 

“Sweet dreams,” Jack says, and they hear the hiss of the device as he hits the button. Everything goes to black.

 

 

  
•••

THEN

 

 

Being who he is, he digs more into the members of the team. Some of them are blatantly obvious in terms of their backstories, to say the least. Their chemist, a man by the name of Muldoon, has tattooed knuckles, a distaste for Flint’s brusque mannerisms, and Silver can read all over him about his estranged family back in Brixton. They’ve got two more men on research that Silver is relatively uninterested about - one’s ex-mob on the run, the other’s a bored university student looking to make some loan payments - and so his attention turns right back to Madi and Flint. 

 

Madi Scott’s name comes up a few times - despite her obvious reputation as an architect, she doesn’t appear to have any formal training. Yet he confirms with a friend of a friend that there is a record of a Lieutenant Scott who is around her age, having served in the British Navy a few years ago. 

 

Silver thinks about when he had met Flint, when he had watched Flint’s eyes fix on his mouth for a single, telling instant on that train - and yet, Silver has since been left with many more questions than answers about the man. Flint barely appears on any of his cursory background checks, and yet with the sort of name he’s built for himself, Silver is inherently suspicious about whatever he’s hiding.

 

Suspicious, but also interested, because, well. Flint holds that sort of mysterious aura around him that makes Silver just want to dig his fingers in to try to peer through the veil. Never mind a pretty face, it’s going to be curiosity that kills him. It doesn’t help that when Flint’s gaze bores into him like that, Silver’s half-caught picturing what he might look like in bed. 

 

He thinks he might have a better shot with Madi Scott, though, and not only because she had looked at him for a bit longer than what’s strictly defined as proper, like she’s also weighing him. 

 

God, does he have a type.

 

 

  
•••

  
NOW

 

 

For all the times that he’s gone down into a dream, Silver has yet to open his eyes and not feel a burst of panic when he’s unsure if he’s dreaming or not, the ambiguity causing panic to rise in his chest. So he keeps his eyes shut as he reaches down, and when he feels the soft give of flesh just below his thigh, he exhales.

 

Once he’s sure he’s not going to vomit as soon as he opens his eyes, Silver blinks around him, getting his surroundings. Madi has once again outdone herself - if it wasn’t for the lack of metal leg, he’d think he was enjoying a coffee on the bridge overlooking the river. Above him, rain lightly patters down on the plastic awning, the steam from his coffee swirling up into the air. Projections meander by, many of them in dark colors and with sharp eyes, even if they don’t pay them too much attention for now.

 

Across from him, Flint’s standing, his abandoned chair pushed back. His eyes are sharp as he takes in their surroundings as well, as Anne and Madi fan out onto the street, moving with the crowd as to avoid gaining too much of their attention.

 

For all the possibility in crafting dreams, this part Silver always hates - when it’s too eerily quiet. Part of his brain tells him that it’s because the emptiness means their brains will try to fill in the gaps, try to fix the noticeable differences between this and reality - but the other part of his brain takes one look at this scene, and he’s reminded about what happens when minds go on the defensive.

 

Flint, of course, has an excellent eye for detail. He tells Max, who’s standing in front of their table gazing up at the buildings, “The awnings are slightly too short. They block the sun - “

 

“And Berringer might move inside,” Max says, already nodding with him. “The interior isn’t as strong, but if we keep him out here, it will be sufficient.”

 

“I want to be prepared for that uncertainty,” Flint tells her. “Just in case - “

 

“I’ll go inside,” Max says, and she moves past them to walk inside the cafe. In the distance, a train sounds, and the rain starts to fall a little harder.

 

Flint looks at Silver. “His assistant?”

 

Silver wills the image of the mousy man to mind. He feels himself shrink, his face rounding, fingers growing puffy until he’s the mirror image of the man. Glancing into the still surface in his cup, he puts on his best expression of bemusement. “Mr. Berringer,” he says in a higher voice, flat American accent, “The reports won’t be in until Wednesday - "

 

“Hunch your shoulders,” Flint orders. “He doesn’t stand as confident as you do.”

 

Silver complies, he adjusts the gold-rimmed glasses perched on the tip of his nose. “Better?”

 

“It’s not bad. Rogers?”

 

Silver transforms into the sneering man. He raises a dismissive eyebrow. "I like tearing people's lives apart, and I do it because I have a complex and a small cock - " 

 

"Incredible," Flint says, flat. "Is that all you have for him?" 

 

“I’d like to see you do better.” He accompanies the words with a meaningful look at Flint. He’s never actually seen the man forge himself - not that he thinks that he couldn’t, but the sheer thought of anyone else with Flint’s mannerisms is something that he wants to see at least once. Silver transforms back into himself, leaving the sharp suit that Rogers prefers on him. "What do you think? Want a shot - " 

 

Flint, though, just rolls his eyes as Silver looks down to adjust the skinny blue tie around his neck. “I’ll have you stick to your job, if it's all the same - “ he starts, but then he stops abruptly.

 

Silver looks up. Flint’s staring past his shoulder, enough so that Silver instinctively flinches to the left, but nothing comes flying at them. “What?“

 

He’s seen Flint get angry at incompetent members of past teams, irritated when Silver pushes just a little too much again him, even depressed when a job had gone badly and Silver had to go in and coax him out from a dark mood in his office. He thinks he’s even made Flint actually, genuinely laugh once or twice - a far rarer sight, but he knows what it looks like when the corners of Flint’s eyes crinkle in genuine mirth, and that’s something. He recognizes these sights because he knows Flint, or likes to think he does.

 

This, though - this isn’t an expression he recognizes, crawling across Flint’s face like a shadow around a corner. There’s something afraid about it, and Flint doesn’t move, even as Silver hears footsteps come up behind him.

 

Silver turns just in time to see a projection approach them. “Ah,” Silver says, because he had hoped to have at least a little more time before the projections started acting up, but this is Flint, so he’s not surprised. It still doesn’t explain the look on Flint’s face, though, as he tries, “I can take care of this - "

 

What he doesn’t expect is for the projection to calmly push aside the chairs until he’s right up there along with them, barely casting a look at Silver as he looks right at Flint. Silver can feel his brow furrow - the projections should be coming after him, not Flint, not when Flint’s dreaming. Ice runs down his spine as the projection says, “Hello, James.”

 

Projections have done much worse - Silver knows that Flint has seen his fair share of how unruly, murderous they get - and yet Flint looks like this is some new horror unfolding right in front of them. It’s not entirely fear, Silver realizes, not when Flint’s mouth parts like he can’t believe what he’s seeing, his knuckles going white from his clenched hands. “Flint?”

 

“I’m sorry,” Flint breathes out, and Silver watches as something twists his expression into something beyond fear, into the sort of pain that he thinks he would kill to not have Flint even appear to experience ever again. “I’m sorry - “

 

The rain comes down even harder in the street, the pattering sound nearly drowning out the projection’s words. “I don’t care,” the man says, and Silver misses the fact there’s a knife in his hand until he’s taking another quick step right at Flint, the quick gleam of metal briefly catching the light before burying itself in Flint’s chest.

 

As Flint falls, his arms open at his sides, Silver finds himself rushing forward. The projection just watches as Flint’s eyes go too wide, as Silver’s hands grab Flint's shoulders, feel the warm gush of blood as he starts to bleed out. “Shit,” Silver says, then, “What the fuck?“

 

He hears Max come out of the cafe behind him, hears her swearing as the dream starts to crumple around them. The rain turns into a tidal wave of water, roaring down the street, and distantly, he can hear the creak of metal as the buildings start to fall.

 

Silver looks up to try to see the projection’s face, but the man has vanished. Flint’s body disappears too, until Silver’s just left with blood on his hands, as the water now surges toward him, enveloping his body, and Silver is cast out into the street.

 

He doesn’t have a mind to conjure anything he can use to take the easy way out, not as the water seizes his body with bruising force, until Silver’s gasping with pain as something wrenches his arm around, as something hits him on the head -

 

He wakes up with a gasp, fingers scrabbling on the vinyl of the chair. “What the fuck,” Silver chokes out, his throat still feeling like the water’s pouring down it, his head smarting from the imagined blow. “What was that?”

 

“You’re both back too early,” Jack says with a frown from where he’s standing in the center of the chairs with a frown. He comes around to extract the needle from Silver’s arm as he tries to catch his breath. “Everything all right?”

 

Silver looks around Jack, trying to catch a look at Flint. But the other man is already standing up, the PASIV discarded by his side. “We’ll meet again tomorrow for another run through,” Flint gets out, looking rather ill before striding out. Silver watches him go, sees the tight line of his shoulders as he disappears.

 

“What could have possibly gone that badly,” Jack wonders out loud, but Silver keeps his eyes on Flint’s figure retreating.

 

Around them, everyone else starts to wake up. “What happened?” Anne asks, rubbing her eyes, reaching over to touch Max’s arm as she too wakes up.

 

Next to her, Madi’s eyes fly open, and she sits up with a quick exhale. Her eyes find Silver’s, who can’t do much more than stare back at her. That was no ordinary projection, but he doesn’t know what that was.

 

“Why did Flint exit the dream so suddenly?” Max asks, and Silver realizes they didn’t see what he did. He thinks about the flat expression of the projection, the anguish in Flint’s eyes.

 

Silver blinks, feeling Madi’s eyes on him. “I don’t know,” he says, which is true, because he still doesn’t know what happened. "Bad compound, Jack?"

 

Jack makes an annoyed sound, already rifling through his papers to look at the chemical formulas. After another, long moment, Madi turns her head to look at the other woman.

 

“We’ll meet again tomorrow,” she says. “I think we’ve made much process so far, and we know where we need to improve."

 

“Yeah,” Silver echoes. “Good work.”

 

 

  
•••

 

 

Later, he knocks on Flint's door, quietly. "You'll have to come out eventually," Silver says. He risks having a gun in his face, and slowly opens the door. "Flint?" 

 

Flint's sitting with his back to the door, staring out the window. When Silver comes to the side of the desk, he can see the expression on his face - and Flint looks _lost_ , his face cast in shades of blue from the reflection of the rain outside. 

 

"Who was that?" Silver dares to ask. He keeps his voice quiet, trying not to press, even when Flint's eyes - Christ, his bloodshot eyes - flit to the side. "Was that - " 

 

"Leave." Flint's voice is cold. Silver hesitates, weighing his options - but Flint doesn't say anything else, to push him in either direction. 

 

He stops at the doorway. "If it's who I think it is," Silver says, measured, "I'm sorry." 

 

"Your apologies are meaningless to me." 

 

"All the same, I give them," Silver says. He hesitates. "You should talk to someone - God, talk to me, if there's a problem, I can - " 

 

"Go," Flint tells him, and Silver does. He knows Flint's tone when he's itching to hit someone or else drink himself into a stupor. 

 

Something bitter curls in his stomach. Let this be another secret between them, he thinks, yet another time the mythical figure of Thomas Hamilton will haunt both of them.

 

 

 

•••

THEN

 

 

They never find out if the mark would be able to handle the boyfriend in a dream, because one thing leads to another, and Flint’s looking down the barrel of a gun during a fucking mutiny. 

 

"I'm sorry," Hal says, "But it's gone too far." Flint's kneeling on the cold concrete, still reeling from this betrayal - and the hit from the butt of the pistol against his temple. He tastes blood, as Hal and two of the other men - surround him, all pointing their guns at him.

 

"Hal, we can get past this - "

 

"This path you're on, it's going to lead to all of us dead somewhere," Hal says. He looks apologetic, which stings even more, as he continues, "Working with you - it can't work. I thought maybe you were better, but I've seen inside your head - you're not. After Billy - "

 

"Billy signed up for this life," Flint snaps. "If you're going to blame me, you and I both know that. It was unfortunate, what happened - "

 

"He was a son to me, and it was your decision that killed him," Hal tells him. His face is grim, set. "This is for your own good. You can go to Boston, forget this life."

 

"Don't make me do this," Flint says, quietly. His hands are behind his head. "Hal. Please don't do this."

 

The man opens his mouth, but before he can, a shot rings out. One of the men gives a muffled shout, blood blooming in his chest as he collapses, Flint unable to do more than stare, surprised. The other one is quick to go, too, and in between breaths, Flint seizes Hal's gun, shoots him on reflex. A neat shot, like he was trained once upon a time.

 

Hal falls, and Flint watches as he gives a surprised wheeze, clutching at his neck once before the light dims from his eyes. The gun falls from his hands.

 

Silver approaches, gun still drawn, as Flint stares. He wouldn't have guessed the man was a good shot, but then again, they're all survivors here. "Are you all right?"

 

He realizes he's shaking. He's not sure he'll ever stop. "I'm sorry," Flint whispers, to Hal's pale face. "I can't stop - not after everything - "

 

"Flint," Silver says, and his hand is a surprising weight on his shoulder. "Are you hurt?"

 

"You should kill me," Flint says, and he turns his face to look at Silver's. Silver's face is shadowed, but his hands are steady on the gun. He lets out an unsteady laugh, full of bitterness. "Haven't you heard? This path just leads to ruin."

 

"I don't think that's true," Silver says, and he glances around. "Come on - I took care of the ones out front. If we go now, it will look like a job gone bad. No one will put this on either one of us."

 

"Why," Flint says. He can feel the blood drying on his face. He's not going to sleep tonight. "Why did you help me? Hal would have kept you on."

 

"Maybe they would have killed me," Silver says, and there are far more lines in his face, now no longer the insouciant forger. "Maybe I didn't want to see you die. Maybe our interests align, after all - but we need to go, now."

 

So they go.

 

In a rundown motel, Silver cleans the blood off of Flint's face, and he lets him put a bandage on the cut above his eyebrow, methodically comb through the room before they sit, wide awake, until the sun pierces through the binds. 

 

And, well, it fits that their relationship starts, anointed in this manner in that motel room, every pass of the soap over Flint's temple stinging like it's the only sign he's alive, Silver's eyes careful not to veer far from his ministrations, his fingers firm but gentle on Flint's jaw.  

 

In the morning, they dig up unused passports. They separate at the airport, not exchanging any unnecessary words, both far away from Buenos Ares and the past. 

 

A month later, Silver calls him from an unregistered phone. Flint never thanks him, but he shows up to the job.

 

They find themselves working together more often than not. 

 

It turns out they work well together, after all. 

 

 

 

  
•••

  
NOW

 

 

 

It goes smoothly. Berringer is wide-eyed in the dream, as Silver as Rogers confronts him with the failure of the company. Madi truly outdoes herself with this dream, as do the others, and Silver lets himself have a satisfied sigh before he exits the dream.

 

The only hitch was one point, when Berringer began to express doubt that the paperwork was real. Being point is a dangerous task - well, all their jobs are - but instead of sticking to the plan, Flint had improvised. Posing as some company manager, he had told Berringer that the company had changed their policy regarding data control, and that they were looking into improved security regarding such things.

 

It was a bold, reckless move. Berringer has some knowledge of dream sharing operations, and he might have seen right through Flint's bluster. Silver had seen the way that Max had reacted to Flint's changes, and while it had worked this time - he doesn't want to see what would have happened had he failed.

 

As with the end of any job, they all share a drink in the warehouse before packing up. Max and Jack pull out short glasses, Madi pulls out the bottle, and they all clink glasses before downing them.

 

It’s some cheap rum that makes the back of Silver’s throat burn, but he accepts a refill when she taps his glass with the neck of the bottle.  

 

He tries to gauge Max now that the job is safely concluded, but as usual, the woman bears no evidence of the anger he had seen before. For all of Jack’s bluster and Anne’s stony glares, Max is the dangerous one to lose trust in them- and coincidentally, the hardest for Silver to read.

 

Flint himself has long disappeared into his office, presumably to pack up, but not before giving a brief, somewhat curt acknowledgment to them all over the job, and information about the impending money transfers as soon as his own glass was empty.

 

Once there’s a door between him and the rest of the team, Max finally says, “If I did not witness Berringer’s press announcement myself, I would think that our efforts had failed given that man’s expression just now.”

 

“He would have preferred not having to veer from the plan, perhaps," Madi says.

 

Anne snorts. "Men like Flint? They like that thrill. Gets them going," she says, draining her glass. Silver thinks that she might be right.

 

Jack tilts his head. “I will never understand such a man as James Flint,” he says, “Can continue to run like that, and yet act as though it was his personal failing that we succeeded.”

 

“Perhaps he’s an immortal being, outliving us all in his solitude,” Silver says, only half kidding. Max rolls her eyes. Beside her, Madi spins her glass on the table, the movement catching his eye as it rolls around and around her finger, her gaze trained on the center of the spiral.

 

Jack, ever appreciative of his godly parallels, drains his glass in response to that. “Well, then, time to be off,” he says, standing up. "Try not to get shot, either of you."

 

The others follow - Madi presses a quick, brief kiss to the corner of his mouth before she has to catch her flight - until it’s just Silver in the empty warehouse, watching the light flickering from below Flint’s door. None of them look surprised when he said he would wait for a while, after all. 

 

Half an hour after Madi leaves, the light turns off. He emerges from the door, and Silver finally finishes his drink as Flint looks right at him.

 

If he’s surprised that Silver was waiting for him, his expression doesn’t betray it. He rolls a large suitcase behind him, containing his personal PASIV and those marbled notebooks of his, and Silver follows him.

 

 

  
•••

 

 

  
The hotel concierge gives a cordial smile to Silver, then a stiffer nod to Flint as they walk by. Boarding the elevator, Flint glances around the hallways before he even touches the button, like he’s already expecting something to go wrong.

 

Silver stares at the glowing buttons on the panel in the elevator as they go up. “If we’re not careful,” he says, “Max is going to take Anne and Jack, try to form her own team, and they’re going to go their own way.”

 

He knows that Flint doesn’t turn his head. “And?” the man prompts, even though he sounds like he’s been expecting this from Silver for a while.

 

“If we lose them, you’re going to have a lot more difficulty pulling off jobs like Berringer today.” The numbers tick up. “Neither Madi nor I are chemists of that calibre, and I doubt you are either, to start”

 

“There are others with similar reputations to hire.”

 

“Then if you don’t stop scaring Jack at every opportunity like with what you pulled today,” Silver tells him, “He’s going to run screaming to everyone you could even think to hire, that you’re reckless and incompetent, and then either he or Max will have no choice but to have Anne try to kill you before you can attempt the same for harming your reputation.”

 

“If Jack has problems with the way I do this, then he should stop taking the jobs that I offer him.”

 

“You and I both know he’s only here because I convinced Max, and Max convinced Anne,” Silver says. He looks at Flint, then, who’s taken to drumming his fingers on one of the bars to the side of the elevator. “Today, with Berringer - it could have gone very differently, the stunt you pulled. The rest of them certainly know that, and I’m concerned that they all expect me to just confront you about it.”

 

"Madi seemed fine with it."

 

"Madi is a little too like you for my comfort, the difference being that she knows her limits," Silver says.

 

Flint slants him an unimpressed look. “If you have something to say, then you should just say it.”

 

“There are fewer and fewer people willing to work with you,” Silver points out, as Flint’s eyes go up as if to regard their reflection in the gilded mirror. ”If you burn this bridge, to say, there aren’t many other people who you haven’t pissed off."

 

“There isn’t anyone better than me,” Flint says. “People understand that, and they need me.”

 

“Humility looks good on you,” Silver says, dry. He injects the serious tone to his voice, though. “You can’t expect the others to risk everything - you can’t risk everything, for that matter, every time we have a job like this."

 

“Do you consider yourself apart from that category, then?” Flint asks him, as Silver’s mouth shuts. “What do you think make you different than any of them?”

 

“I think by now, after what we’ve been through, you might have an idea,” Silver shoots back. Flint’s already turning aggressively as he adds heatedly, “I’m the reason that those people are even working with us in the first place, so do try to remember that. They might need you, but they want me - and forgive me for not wanting to get a call late at night that you’ve managed to kill yourself on some job while I’m at it!”

 

Flint’s gaze is hard, and for a moment, Silver wonders if this is one of those nights - one of them throwing the other to the ground, fighting with more than words, vicious and cruel before hotel security separates them. They’re both too stubborn to back down from the challenge, and he thought that they might be past this - but then again, even in peaceful times with Flint it’s more like being in the eye of a hurricane, just waiting for the storm to start again.

 

But Flint turns his head back to face front, and even though his shoulders are still tense, he doesn’t move. Silver watches his profile, barely illuminated by the yellow light.

 

Then again, it’s maybe another kind of night.

 

The elevator slows to a stop, two floors below his own hotel room, and as the doors open, Flint steps out. The hotel’s carpet mutes his footsteps, as Silver remains in the elevator, watching him leave.

 

Silver runs his thumb over the side of his pointer finger. “I’ll see you at the next job, then?”

 

Flint sends him another one of those looks over his shoulder. His eyes slip down as he regards him with something, that if Silver didn’t know better by now, resembling annoyance. He turns to walk down the hallway, disappearing around the corner.

 

Silver counts to five, and then he throws his arm out before the elevator doors can close. He steps out, loosening his tie even more as he turns the corner as well.

 

Flint’s in front of his hotel room door, and he barely glances up at Silver approaches. He swipes the card, opening the door as Silver comes closer, and he goes in without a word.

 

The door hangs ajar, and Silver glances up and down the hallway before he too steps into the dark room.

 

Flint’s weight presses against him as soon as he’s over the doorway, his hands grasping handfuls of Silver’s shirt, tugging it out from his trousers. He feels Flint’s mouth, hot and wet on his jaw as he breathes out, making his skin tingle under the attention as he presses against him insistently.

 

Silver’s hands come up to grasp at broad shoulders as Flint mouths down lower onto his neck, his teeth dragging along his skin as he pulls him closer. His hands go around to the small of his back, where Silver can feel his warmth through the shirt as he tilts his head back, welcoming as Flint makes a noise like he’s muttering something against his neck.

 

He opens his mouth as if to say something in return, but Flint bites down on his collarbone, and a strangled moan comes out instead. His fingers curl into Flint’s back like he’s trying to pierce the fabric of his suit jacket, his thigh sliding between Flint’s as they stagger back a step, Flint working his shirt out of his trousers, Silver intent on pressing hard enough on his back like he can rip his hands through the fabric.

 

If it had gone south, they both might have died today. The idea spurs him on, makes him want to leave his mark now - on the world, on Flint in this moment. He digs his fingers in more, like he wants to leave bruises so that they both know they're alive.

 

“Come on, not going to break - “ Silver gets out, and Flint pulls a little too hard so a button goes flying. He feels impossibly winded already, somehow, as he works his hands up into Flint’s hair, tugging as Flint licks over where he had just bitten. Flint pushes him again as the door closes behind them, and as Silver’s back hits the wooden door, his head connecting with the surface with a thud. Flint doesn’t say anything, even when Silver’s hands push his jacket off, fingers greedily seeking out skin as he rolls his hips against his.

 

Silver pulls hard at his hair once again, until Flint’s forced to lean back, neck exposed as Silver drinks in the sight of his open mouth, his heaving chest.  He’s missed this, missed it like some shark taken out of the sea, ready to sink his teeth in to draw blood -

 

Flint has that focused look in his eyes, just like when they’re in the middle of an impossible job - only Flint’s looking at him like this, pupils expanded, before pulling him right back in, biting at his mouth. He kisses like he’s just won the fight, sucking on his tongue until Silver’s not quite sure when his breath ends and Flint’s begins, or if Flint had said anything at all.

 

He manages to get Flint’s jacket off, his own shirt already unbuttoned under Flint’s fingers, all the while incredibly aware of Flint’s hands moving to squeeze just a little too tight around his waist as they grind together, fast and too much and never enough -

 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Silver utters when Flint slides to his knees, and then he doesn’t say anything too coherent for a while, with the heat of Flint’s mouth around him, the grip of his hands nearly too much to bear, even as he can nearly taste the moment when Flint lets him push him back onto the bed, lick down those freckles and mouth the skin on the inside of his thighs.

 

He comes with teeth biting into the inside of his elbow, Flint's forehead pressing into his chest, Silver's hands holding him steady against him, as Flint shudders, and they both don't have to say anything for once.

 

 

•••

 

 

Afterward, even though his eyes are closed, Silver doesn't fall asleep. He moves so that his hand is splayed over his own, sweaty abdomen, as he hears Flint’s breathing even out from beside him, the brush of his elbow against his. His leg aches a little, and he really needs to be more careful of taking off the prosthetic before a romp like that.

 

 _Do you still dream?_ Flint had asked him once, in a moment not unlike this. Silver hadn’t known whether he lied for his comfort, or for Flint’s.

 

He feels the whisper of the sheets moving just over his foot. When he cracks open an eye, he can see Flint’s bare back, the freckles made visible from the light coming in from the window as he bends down to pick up his shirt.

 

“I have a flight to catch,” Flint says without looking at him as he moves to put it back on. “You can have the room.”

 

He’s not surprised - for all the times they’ve done this, they’ve never fallen asleep together. Call it common sense in their line of work, but they both know that actually sleeping together suggests an entirely new area of intimacy.

 

They both know too much about each other already, he thinks, but he pushes away such thoughts. He doesn’t ask why Flint even bothered to get a room, just like how Flint’s not going to confirm that Silver never had another room in the first place.

 

He is, however, taken off guard when Flint then asks, “Do you have a job lined up?”

 

Silver opens his other eye. “Max has a friend in Algiers who called in a favor,” he says. “Should be an easy one. You?”

 

Flint, naturally, doesn’t answer. Silver closes his eyes again, listening to Flint get up, close a suitcase that he had already packed. He pulls the sheet more over him as Flint goes in and out of the bathroom, the shower briefly running before the light turns off once again.

 

This is another one of their post-job rituals, and he’s not about to ruin it with sentimentality - especially not when Flint seems intent on the next task, probably already thinking about his next job as soon as he had collapsed next to Silver.

 

Sometimes, Silver thinks about a world in which they met under different circumstances - but he thinks that maybe in that world, they wouldn’t have bothered to do this.

 

He can hear Flint pause at the door, though. Silver opens his eyes. “Good luck in Algiers," Flint says, and for a moment, it looks like he's considering the rumped sheets next to Silver - but then he picks up his suitcase.

 

“Until next time,” Silver says, lazily saluting him from the bed, and the door clicks shut as Flint leaves.  

 

For all the years he’s been able to live in luxurious hotel rooms, the bed still feels too big for him. Silver swallows, rolling over, and he tries to will sleep to come.

 

It’s an elusive goal.

 

 

•••

 

 

Five weeks after Berringer, he gets a call. It's an unregistered number, but it can be only one of two people.

 

“It’s bad,” Madi says, and Flint’s sitting upright. “He went under two days ago.”

 

His muscle memory serves him well, as he leans over, starts to put on a shirt, his pants, all folded neatly at the foot of his bed. “Where are you?”

 

She’s silent for a moment instead of answering, and that’s all the confirmation that he needs that it is really, really bad. “South Carolina,” Madi says. “Just outside of Charleston.”

 

“I’ll be there in half a day,” Flint tells her, and he hangs up.

 

On the way to the airport, where he’s finagled a private ride to get him to Charleston International, Flint stares at the blank phone screen. He reaches into his jacket, feels the cool spine of the book, and he takes a deep breath.

 

 

•••

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

NOW

 

In Charleston, it's not Madi who meets him at the airport. Instead, Flint sees a familiar-looking bald man just outside the arrivals gate, visibly sweating even before he’s closed. He thinks he might have worked with Muldoon in Kiev - or was it Budapest - a while back, and while he doesn't remember much, he doesn't have any particular grudge, either.

 

Silver likes him. He had told Flint once that it was hard to find a fair chemist, one that wouldn't cheat you out of your money, and Muldoon fit that bill. But Silver had always seemed to like people long before Flint gave them any second notice, or maybe Silver is just better at seeing through them.

 

The man offers to take his bag, but Flint declines. He's holding barely more than a change of clothes, keeping the PASIV in his grasp for the duration of his trip. While Muldoon gets the car, Flint makes sure that they weren't followed through the airport, and then they both get into his car.

 

Charleston is greener than he remembered, the sky clear overhead as the sun begins its descent down the sky. Muldoon keeps his eyes in front as he drives, his hands at ten-and-two. "It's bad, isn't it, that she called you in?"

 

Flint considers just getting out and getting a taxi, rather than talk about this with Muldoon. "Madi trusts me."

 

"Yeah, but she's brilliant on her own," Muldoon says. "Silver - is he going to be all right?"

 

At his tone, Flint glances over. He's not about to comfort him, but the worried line between Muldoon's eyebrows makes him attempt decency.

 

"That's why we're here," Flint says.

 

 

•••

 

 

It’s only about ten minutes before Muldoon’s pulling the dingy gray car into an alleyway. “Up there,” he says. “She’s in 410.”

 

Flint eyes the side of the hotel. "Your team was working here?"

 

"She made the decision to bring him here," Muldoon says. "Tell her I'll be back tomorrow with more bags."

 

The inside of the hotel is cheap but clean-looking. A bored-looking man is at the receptionist counter, not blinking an eye when Flint walks by, to the elevators.

 

Madi looks drawn when she answers the door. “Thank you for coming,” she says, tucking the gun back into her holster - like she had any doubt Flint would show up. "Is Muldoon with you?"

 

"He said he'll be back tomorrow," Flint replies, only half paying attention. He closes the door behind him, but Madi puts her hand out, just enough to stop him from going forward.

 

He looks down at her hand on his arm. “You need to know, he’s been under since Tuesday," Madi says. "From what I can tell, it was just him, and it was intentional on his part."

 

"Was he testing something?"

 

"We weren't running a job," Madi says, and Flint sees the bags under her eyes, even as she meets his eyes with a steely look. "I came as soon as Muldoon told me."

 

"Then what the fuck was he doing here?"

 

"Apparently, he told Muldoon he was trying some new forge and needed Somnacin on short notice," Madi says. "When he didn't surface on time, Muldoon tried to go in, and he stopped him."

 

"What do you mean - Silver  _stopped_ him?"

 

"He described it as entering emptiness," Madi says. The hair on the back of Flint's neck stands up as she continues, "Muldoon couldn't navigate anywhere, see anything - it was like he wasn't there, like it was some void."

 

"Fuck," Flint says, again, and he closes his eyes rather than look at her.

 

He thinks of another room, cold metal against his wrists, another set of blue eyes - 

 

"He's given himself a strong sedative before he went under. It's probably still running in the PASIV, which means we can get to it," Flint says, his eyes still closed. "It makes time move even slower down there. If he went down more than two levels, it means that he's forgetting what was on the first level." The words nearly stick in his throat, as he forces out, " If he goes down too deep, he won't be able to come back up - there won't be anything for him to surface from."

 

He can hear Madi breathing, in and out, like it's taking some great force. "Why would he do this?"

 

Flint opens his eyes. He knows that she can see on his face that he has no answer, nor was she expecting one. "Did you try?" he asks. "To go under?"

 

After the briefest pause, Madi shakes her head.

 

"I considered it," she says. "But if John didn't want someone to follow him, it couldn't just be me. I'm not too proud to jeopardize him in that way - like I suspect you wouldn't." In the middle of her words, Madi's face does something, like she's trying to control it from contorting onto itself, before smoothing out just a little too well. 

 

"Where is he?" Flint asks. Madi lets go of his arm, and he had forgotten her touch, lost in his thoughts, as the cool air reaches where her palm had been.

 

"He's in the bedroom," she says.

 

 

•••

 

 

 

Silver's on the bed, his arms at his sides. His eyes are moving just a little behind his pale closed eyelids, his chest rising and falling like he's in a normal slumber. But the PASIV hooked into one arm and the IV in the other tell a different story, stretching out like mechanical wings to either side of him.

 

He forced his hands to stay still at his sides, as they both watch Silver breathe, the only sound being the hum of the machine. IV bags, Flint realizes, that's what Muldoon must have been referring to.

 

As if she read his thoughts, Madi says, "I have some hospital contacts, and Muldoon's getting the supplies he'll need to watch us. He won't starve, nor will we. We're safe here."

 

He's absurdly glad that she's thought of this, already two steps ahead while he's trapped in the past. Both of them know there's no waiting for what comes next.

 

“It was risky moving him," Flint says out loud, needs to confirm: "No one else knows we're here?"

 

"We're off the grid." Madi smoothes down the coverlet. Flint notices that Silver's prosthetic leg is still on underneath like he's going to wake up at any moment, about to get out of bed and tell them both  _Why the long faces?_  “Has you seen this happen before?”

 

"I have," Flint says. He moves, takes a seat next to Silver's bed. "What I can't understand is why he did this- what purpose he could have seen in slowing down time?"

 

"Perhaps whatever he was seeking requires the time to do so," Madi says. She opens the PASIV, looking at the tubing, pulling out two tubes with expert efficiency, as he watches Silver's face.

 

Flint realizes he's never seen him asleep before. They've always gone down in dreams together, or he didn't think to look before - or maybe Silver never let him see him like this. From the moment they met, Flint thinks that Silver's been like a live flame, never quite still as it burns so brightly. Now, seeing his face so slack, he thinks it's like seeing the wisp of smoke disappear into the air, a small smudge all that's left of the fire.

 

"Will you be able to do this?" Madi asks, and he's shaken from his thoughts. He hadn't realized that his hands were starting to tremble until he sees Madi's meaningful glance at them.

 

Flint stares down at them, on the dry skin of his knuckles, the nail he's been worrying for the past thousand miles. "I don't know," he admits. "He's better at this than either one of us. And if anything were to happen up here - " 

 

"You won't be going in alone," Madi tells him. She finishes attaching the syringes, sets the timer. "If we go in together, we stand a chance."

 

There's no time for reminiscing, not now. "We'll need to separately get to the second level, in hopes that it will clear up," Flint says. He starts to roll up his sleeve, as Madi takes the chair on the other side of the bed. "Once we get there - we'll need to get under."

 

"It's set for an hour up here, which gives us ten on that level," Madi says, ready with the needle. She puts it in his arm, and Flint wills himself to physically relax, looking at the small line just above Madi's eyebrows, as she puts the needle in her arm as well.

 

Before she sends them under, Madi pauses. She looks like she's going to say something, but before she can, Flint reaches over Silver. He holds out his hand, palm up, and after a moment, Madi reaches back.

 

Her fingers are just overlapping Flint's, and both of their hands are over Silver's chest. The machine gives a small hiss as it loads their doses of Somnacin, and Madi gives him a tiny nod, her finger on the PASIV's button.

 

Flint breathes in, feels Silver's sternum under his knuckles, Madi's fingers flexing just a little over his. "Okay. I'm ready - "

 

 

 

•••

 

 

 

He's falling, or floating, or perhaps he's already landed and just doesn't know. 

 

He can't see or smell anything, his senses robbed as he struggled to make sense of his directionality. Flint moves his arms, or what he thinks are part of his body - and feels nothing, not even the whisper of air, pain, nothing.

 

 _Madi_. Flint turns his head blindly, but it's like all the light has been sucked out from around him - but instead of darkness it's just blank.

 

It feels like there's pressure growing in his chest, his ribs expanding until they touch his skin, but he forces himself to stay calm. He's managed to survive worse, things that have killed him in dreams, should have killed him in real life - he can get through this.

 

Although he has no way to confirm it, something nudges his mind, like a tap on the shoulder without the physical feedback. They need to get to the second level, Flint recalls, and he imagines a PASIV: the tubing that runs into the aluminum case, the gear that locks it, the pumping system, electrical components, putting the needle into his arm -

 

 

_"Don't do this," Miranda says. She's sitting on the edge of his bed,where Flint's still tangled in the flannel sheets that she used to sleep in as well. He's thinking to himself, if I just try again, go to that cafe where we watched the people go by, what was the name, that city-_

_"You're going to kill yourself, doing this."_

_Flint says, "I can't stop -he wouldn't_ want _me to stop, can't you see - "_

_"He wouldn't want you to waste your life on a lost cause," Miranda snaps, then looks horrified that the words have spilled out of her mouth - but he's heard worse, from her, from himself these past few days. "He's gone, James."_

_"I'm the one who's lost," Flint says, bile rising in his throat, "And we need to find him."_

_"There is no life here," Miranda tells him, as he lifts the needle to his arm.Her eyes are dark and sad, but full of something at least, not like how he feels so empty -_

_Flint closes his eyes, wakes up in another world. Then he's shouting, "_ Thomas! _"_

 

 

 

Flint gasps, the pressure suddenly blinding. Somnacin can feel icy running through veins, but this, the pain ricocheting through his body, it's like the air is folding in on itself around him, and his body is being torn apart-

 

And then he's waking up.

 

On the second level, instead of nothingness, there's sound and light and smell everywhere. His whole body tingles like he's been sleeping for a long time, just jerked awake, as he catches his breath.

 

"It worked." Madi's voice comes from beside him, and he sees her there. They're lying down on a busy street, the cars swerving gently to avoid hitting them, like they're in a park rather than on pavement. A chrome car gets within inches of Madi's shoulders, but she barely flinches.

 

She gets up, and Flint follows, rubbing his arm. They both stare around them, seeing the new terrain, adjusting.

 

_Where are you?_

 

The buildings go as far as his eye can see, glittering chrome and mirrored walls shrinking in the distance until they seem to disappear into the sun. The projections who walk by are all wearing tailored clothing, a sea of limbs and drapery and quick gestures, only some glancing over to where Madi and Flint are standing. Most are ambling on by, the tap of their shoes in rhythm to the sounds of the vintage cars that roar by, the violet plumes of smoke just a touch too bold to feel entirely realistic.

 

One of the first lessons to avoid antagonizing the mind in invasive dream-sharing is to blend in with the projections. They both know this, so as they exchange a look, they step onto the sidewalk together, and they join the crowd.

 

 

 

•••

THEN

 

 

 

"A dream," the professor says, "That's how these can exist."

 

There's a pause, and then there's a clamor as the students in the architecture class start to voice their disapproval. The professor just leans back on his desk, smiling, as they start to shout.

 

"That doesn't count - "

 

"I thought these were real world applications - "

 

" - bother learning if we can't do it in reality?"

 

At this last statement, the man straightens up. A hush falls over the room, as it usually does when Professor Hamilton starts to speak.

 

"We  _bother_  to learn about these things because it is our choice to pass them off as impossible," the professor says. "These key concepts - not all of them can be recreated in real life, yes. But to study what is impossible, conceptualize what you cannot build with your hands - well, that's a skill that I would expect many of you to find useful at the very least. Shapes that defy logic are meant to inspire, and you don't need to have tangible evidence that they exist in order to consider what you are able to do with that inspiration."

 

"I thought this was an architecture credit, not a philosophical one, Professor," one of the students towards the front of the room says, and there's scattered laughter.

 

The man just smiles. "The two overlap, Eme," he says. "If there's one thing I hope you all take from this class, it's that there's always more under the surface to any of these lessons."

 

After most of the students have exited, James allows himself to walk towards the front. His boots on the hardwood steps of the auditorium echo, and Professor Hamilton looks up as he approaches.

 

"Excuse me, Professor Hamilton," James says. "If I could have a moment, my name is Lieutenant James McGraw - "

 

"Lieutenant?" the professor repeats, as he puts his briefcase back on the desk. "And here I thought you were a visiting student."

 

"Sir?"

 

"I noticed you in the audience," the professor says, his eyes focused on his face now. "I don't suppose you're here just to satisfy your questions on Penrose triangles, though."

 

"I come as a representative for a new division organized by Her Majesty's Armed Forces," James says. "If I could have a moment of your time, my superiors are very interested in your work. I have been sent to request a meeting about this taskforce - "

 

"A taskforce," Professor Hamilton says, "And what sort of  _taskforce_  has interest in architecture?"

 

They're alone in the auditorium, finally, and James does a quick glance around to be certain. He keeps his voice low but courteous as he says, "Sir, they are interested in the research that you and your wife have been working on."

 

"My ex-wife," the professor corrects. "If you'll forgive me for saying so, since Miranda is a chemistry professor at Edinburgh I believe you are mistaken - "

 

"Your work in dream-sharing," James continues, and Professor Hamilton's mouth closes. "My superiors have sent me to negotiate terms of a consulting role that you would be offered."

 

"Consulting," Professor Hamilton repeats, dry. "I suspect that your presence today means it isn't quite an offer."

 

"They are prepared to give you funding to completely focus on this work during your upcoming sabbatical."

 

"It's not the funding I'm concerned about," the professor says, and his mouth tightens. "I have office hours now, but I can arrange something later this week."

 

"Sir - "

 

"Good day, lieutenant," the professor says, and James watches as he moves by, exits the auditorium.

 

This might be a challenging task after all.

 

 

 

•••

 

 

 

"Well, well," a voice says. "You must be the Lieutenant they sent after my husband."

 

James sits upright, his spine going rigid in surprise, as the owner of the voice, a woman with dark hair, steps into his sight.

 

"Forgive me, I didn't mean to startle you," the woman says. James had been waiting for Professor Hamilton to exit his lecture, join him for the meeting, and he hadn't expected to see Miranda Barlow instead. But the photo in her file had captured none of the clarity in her eyes, nor the slight tilt in her chin up at him as she approaches. Both

 

"Professor Barlow," James says, rising, hat tucked under his arm. "I - "

 

"Your colleague has been most persistent in his attempts to get me to come back to your mysterious base," the professor says, her eyes sharp. "I had come to see if Thomas was experiencing a similar level of assault. Are you waiting for him?"

 

"Pardon me, ma'am," James says. He tries to remember who had been assigned to get Miranda Barlow to come in -  _probably fucking Pickram_ , given the slight curl to her lip. "My superiors do not mean to disturb you or your former husband. I apologize for any inconvenience we may have caused."

 

Something in her eyes change just a little, as she looks him up and down. "You are another representative, correct?"

 

"Yes, ma'am."

 

"Then you'll be the one to give me some answers if you're as polite as you say," Barlow decides. "What do you want with us?"

 

Before he has to answer, though, the doors open, and students start to trickle out. They both look in that direction, then back at each other.

 

"If I may, I can speak to both you and Professor Hamilton at once," James offers. He's not supposed to tell them anything - the information is highly controlled, and he's supposed to be convincing them to return to the headquarters with him, not talk to them himself - but he thinks that both professors seem the sort that that will never work. "I want to speak about the potential of your research."

 

"Are you attempting to irritate us until we give in?"

 

"If I may, ma'am, if you and Professor Hamilton give me an hour of your time, I may suggest to my superiors that there may be many more difficulties in hiring you in the first place," James offers. If it comes to that, there will be no doubt that the admiral will likely be very displeased, but he thinks that if he doesn't give that option, he won't even get to speak with either of them.

 

For a moment, he thinks he sees a ghost of a smile go over the professor's face. "That," Professor Barlow says after a pause, "Would be very much appreciated indeed, lieutenant."

 

 

 

•••

 

 

 

"You want us to come work for the military," Hamilton repeats. "And you want us to - ?"

 

"Use our work for whatever nefarious purpose?" Barlow finishes for him. "You can see why we might have some reservations on that, lieutenant."

 

James resists the urge to pinch his nose. They're sitting in Professor Hamilton's office, both Hamilton and Barlow behind the large oak desk, James sitting in the chair across from them and feeling rather like a troubled student that they're both scolding.

 

"My superiors only wish for you to focus on this dream-sharing," he says. "They are willing to offer compensation for your time, and they will speak to the faculty at your institutions to make sure your tenure is not affected - "

 

"Have you read our research, then?" Barlow asks. Hamilton just sits in his chair, watching his ex-wife speak, hand under his chin. "I can only assume that since you've approached us, that you've managed to see what we haven't yet published."

 

James hesitates. He didn't need access to the actual files to know that the military accessed the research in less than ethical ways - and while he knows generally what they've accomplished, he feels as though it would not be wise to lie to them in this moment. "I have not."

 

"Then maybe you should," Barlow says ruthlessly, then adding, "If you can't be bothered to do your research on us, let me tell you this - neither Thomas nor I will ever give up our time or ideas, so you can tell your superiors to kindly go - " 

 

"Miranda," Hamilton interrupts quietly, putting his arm down. "He's not the antagonist here."

 

"Thomas, I don't need to remind you of what working with those people gets us," Miranda says, and she sounds truly furious. "Or do I need remind you of - "

 

She cuts herself off, as if remembering that James is there.

 

"Lieutenant McGraw," Thomas says at last, breaking the icy silence. "I believe we will need to consider your proposal."

 

"Of course," James says, and he stands. "Sir, ma'am. I hope to speak with you both again."

 

As he closes the door behind him, he catches sight of Miranda's frown, Thomas's clenched fists on the top of his desk, and he closes the door firmly.

 

 

 

•••

 

 

 

"They are suspect of our motives," James says. "I tried to convince them, but they refuse to return here with me."

 

"And they only want to be in contact with you?" Admiral Hennessey asks. The Admiral is an even-tempered man, but James can tell that the frustration is simmering somewhere beneath his skin, as he curls his fist on top of his desk. He's known for the man for most of his life, and despite the annoyance, Admiral Hennessey is a fair man, and James thinks that he still might be able to get the Hamiltons to see this.

 

"I apologize, sir," James says, "I can try to further convince them - "

 

"No, I have a feeling that they will resist any further motions," the admiral says, letting a displeased sigh out. "I'm taking Pickram off the case - although this is not the desired outcome you produced, it was at least something."

 

James isn't the least bit surprised at this. He ducks his head a little. 

 

"You'll be the liason to both Professor Hamilton and Barlow now," the admiral continues to tell him. "If they refuse to meet with me, then you will meet in my stead. I assume you understand the importance of our task at hand, lieutenant, and I expect your perseverance to pay off."

 

"I will do my best, sir," James says. The admiral leans back in his chair.

 

"Scholars," the admiral says. "I must say, I'm not surprised at this result. Given Hamilton's history, it's no surprise that he, in particular, is stubborn to our recruiting."

 

"Sir?"

 

"He is the estranged son of Lord Hamilton," the admiral says, and James hides his surprise. Lord Alfred Hamilton is one of their benefactors, an ally to the Navy that Hennessey has had to work with quite a lot in the past.

 

Perhaps he's not successful at hiding this expression, for Hennessey smiles faintly. "I suppose you never heard of the rift between Lord Hamilton and his eldest son," he says. "It happened about ten years ago - some personal argument that led to the estrangement. If Thomas Hamilton was able to refuse his own father of something with the importance to lead to that divide, then it's no surprise that we have this difficulty."

 

"I have a meeting with both Hamilton and Barlow tomorrow," James says, and then he hesitates. "If I may - request, sir?"

 

The admiral raises an eyebrow. "Yes?"

 

"I would like to request access to their research," James says.

 

"James, you know our intelligence does not have a complete view of their work - " 

 

"I know, sir, and I would ask your permission to ask Professor Hamilton and Professor Barlow," James says. "I think that if I gain their trust, they might allow that possibility."

 

The admiral studies him. "You mean, you would like to know, and you might not be able to tell me about it lest you lose their trust."

 

He thinks that the admiral is going to refuse, only Hennessey gives another sigh. "If it will help you, then I grant you my permission," the admiral tells him. "If somehow, you manage to convince them to work with us, then I suppose I don't mind what you know in the meantime."

 

 

 

•••

 

 

 

 

"You want to go into a dream," Hamilton repeats.

 

This is their fourth meeting, and James had come to the realization of this next step by the third, when he had finished reading their work.

 

It seems that in their studies, Miranda had come up with the calculations to build the dream-sharing machines and administer the proper amount of drugs to keep them under, while Thomas had worked out the fundamentals of building the places they had come to. James had pored through pages and pages of proofs and formulas, diagrams and case studies, and he was left with the distinct impression that the Hamiltons knew far more about this than anyone else in the world.

 

James keeps his head up, even as both of the professors stare at him. "I do."

 

"You want one of us to craft something for you to enter?" Barlow asks. "Because I am not sure I understand what you could possibly want for us to go into your head."

 

"I would want to enter one of the dreams with one of you," James says, "Or both of you. I want to see what you have managed, what you have been working on, what you have been doing for all this time." 

 

There's a long beat of silence. "You've read what we provided," Hamilton says. "You know that it has only been Miranda and I crafting these dreams - "

 

"I know that you doubt why I am here," James says. "Sir, ma'am, if I may -if this is what it takesyou to trust me, I would do it."

 

The two professors exchange a long look, one that James is not fluent in the language of. "Lieutenant," Hamilton starts, but Barlow interrupts him.

 

"You're a Navy man, you must carry around some secrets," Barlow finishes. "What's to say we manage to trick you, get into your head, get us to tell you anything you know?"

 

"Not that we would - "

 

"But we  _could_ ," Barlow says. "And you wouldn't even know it happened. Tell me, how do your superiors consider that risk?"

 

James says, "There is that chance, ma'am. But I still request that you consider this - both of you." He looks at Professor Hamilton, who is regarding him with such intensity that he feels his skin prickle under that gaze - not hostile, but not far away from horror, either.

 

"We could  _ruin_  you," Hamilton says. "We've been incredibly careful just with the two of us, and even knowing what we've tested - it's dangerous. I'm not sure you quite grasp this, if I'm being honest, lieutenant, and for all that we've argued these last few weeks, that would not bring me comfort to see you comatose."

 

Barlow adds, "Once you know you're in one, you could panic, and it could change you." She doesn't glance over at her ex-husband, but both swallow before she says, "We've changed. This is no simple experiment that you can decide to test on a whim - no protocol, no guarantees." 

 

He decides, in a split second, to tell them. "They've started to test soldiers in dreams," James says, and both Hamilton and Barlow stiffen. "I shouldn't be telling you any of this - but they've developed their own machines, and they've been working at it for months - years, maybe. Before they found out about your research, they've been looking into more practical applications for dream sharing."

 

"Only they haven't worked well," Barlow says, realization blooming. "And they've sent you to convince us - because they haven't figured it out."

 

"They've lost two men because of it," James says. "They're running out of options, so they are forced to turn to civilians." Speaking the truth makes him feel reckless, but the words keep on spilling out, as both of the Hamiltons look at him, like water through a sieve. "The concern is that some other foreign group has gotten ahead of them in this, but they need to have a success before they are able to use this in the more public eye. They're willing to do anything to get there in the meantime."

 

"Success," Barlow says flatly. "For enhanced interrogation, I suppose."

 

"Christ," Hamilton says. "And you - have you - ?"

 

"No," James says, "I don't have the clearance. They only pick the top candidates, the top soldiers, to attempt."

 

Barlow snorts, but Hamilton remains quiet, still studying James with those blue eyes. "Knowing the sort of people that your superiors are - I mean no offense, lieutenant, but you need an imagination to come up with a stable dream. An imagination that is no doubt drilled out of you in your boot camps- "

 

"We'll do it," Hamilton says, and both of them look at him. "We'll lead you into a dream."

 

Barlow looks even more surprised than James feels. "Thomas?"

 

"Miranda," Hamilton replies, turning to her, "Trust me."

 

There's a long silence, then, as Barlow looks at him. James can't tell if her expression changes, as he shifts where he's standing until Hamilton looks back at him.

 

"We'll control the dream, and we can pull the plug at any time," Hamilton says firmly. "A regular sedation blend of Somnacin to tamp down any militaristic training in his subconciousness - neither of us will attempt to  _pry_ , and the lieutenant will be satisfied by the demonstration we can give - won't you?"

 

James glances over to the other professor. "Come back early tomorrow," Barlow says in response, although she keeps on looking over to her ex-husband. "No alcohol or caffeine tonight."

 

"Yes, ma'am," James says, and he stands. "Professor Hamilton - "

 

"Call me Thomas," Hamilton says, and he finally looks away from her to him. "I think if we're going to become intimately aware of what's in your head, we ought to be on a first name basis, shouldn't we?"

 

He really shouldn't. The Navy has put years of protocol in his head to do exactly  _not this_ , but James finds himself nodding. "Thomas," he says, testing it, then, "Thank you."

 

 

 

•••

 

 

 

The cold is bitingly sharp against his skin, the wind picking up as soon as he steps out of the church. James pulls his coat more around him, already feeling the tips of his fingers and ears start to go numb from the conditions.

 

Reykjavik had much more mild weather the first time he went, but he had no time to walk around like this trip. He passes by a townhouse painted bright yellow, the color breaking up the muddled gray of the sky.

 

"James," he hears. "James - "

 

He turns, and Professor Hamilton - Thomas - is standing there. Even though James is starting to feel the cold seep through his jacket, like icy fingers curling around his bones, the man looks comfortable in just a button-down shirt. People pass by him, seemingly not bothered by his presence just stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.

 

"What are you doing here, sir?" James asks. He thinks he feels a raindrop on the back of his neck, but when he glances up, the sky remains clear.

 

"James," Thomas says kindly, "You're dreaming."

 

"What?"

 

"This is a dream," Thomas says, "I need you to stay calm - " and then the memories start to flood back.

 

 

_Sitting in one of the plastic folding chairs Miranda had brought into the space, the light glints off the metal device, James waits as Miranda finishes her calculations, on the back of a legal pad._

_"And it just happens?" James asks, as he feels the touch of Thomas's hand on the inside of his arm as he puts the needle in. Up close, Thomas has a little bit of blond stubble on his upper lip, like he hadn't quite shaved perfectly this morning, and he glances up like he can feel James's eyes on him._

_"We'll find you," Miranda says, and her arms are crossed when he turns his attention to her. "Just don't panic when you realize - "_

 

 

"Breathe in," and James feels a hand on his back, warm enough to start to chase away the cold, rubbing slowly, soothingly, "In, that's it, and now exhale - "

 

James breathes in and out of his mouth, feeling Thomas's hand like an anchor. When he no longer feels like he's about to be sick, he straightens up again, now staring around him. "Is this - but I've never been - "

 

"I was here on vacation last year," Thomas says easily, and he drops his hand. James misses the contact instantly, even as he presses the thought down. "See, I can't quite remember what was here," and he gestures to an alleyway that James had assumed was merely dark, but upon close inspection, appears to dissolve into nothingness, the light fading away like a smear of charcoal on paper, " - and the more I try to fill it up, the more it seems to resist."

 

"This is your memory?"

 

"It is," Thomas replies. "We've found that some of the strongest dreams are rooted in memories. Your mind comes up with most of the details, but if I find that if I try too hard to create it, either unintentionally or not, I'm left with some of these holes." He shrugs, looking a little sheepish about it. "This isn't the best one, but it's a good one to start with, we thought. Perhaps not entirely familiar to you, but not completely out of left field."

 

"The people," James says, and he starts to follow some of the faces going by them. "Are they all real?"

 

"We call them projections," Thomas says. "They're less  _people,_ more figments of your mind. Faces you've seen somewhere, pushed together to populate the space. They represent your mind, your defenses, your control on the memory I've created here." Indeed, while the faces going by are all different enough, James gets the sense that they all look a little hurried, some scowling a bit - yet, not giving them any real attention there.

 

"It's beautiful," James says before he can stop it. "I've never been here - but it feels so  _real._  there are just so many pieces, I just can't believe you've managed to create it."

 

"I - thank you, James," Thomas says, looking pleasantly surprised. James hopes that his ears aren't pink after all, as he stares at the pavement - which, upon closer inspection, appears to have tiny sapphires embedded in the surface, in a pattern too consistent to be accidental.

 

 

"Since you're not wretching in the corner, I believe you've made it," Miranda says, and they both turn. She's wearing a wool coat like James, and her eyes go between the two of them. "Welcome to the first level."

 

 

 

•••

 

 

 

He can hear the PASIV beep once, signaling his line is cut, before his eyes open. James slides the needle out from his arm, sitting up and running a hand through his hair.

 

In the chair across from him, Thomas's eyes flutter open. As he watches the man fully wake up, James thinks he can still feel the snow on his hair, the gentle storm that Miranda had created in the dream to show him. He remembers the sight of Thomas lifting a Gothic building out of black sand, until it was towering over them, floating a good hundred feet off the ground like a hot air balloon.

 

He had tried it, too. Not like what Thomas or Miranda had been doing, nothing that complex - but James had held open his hand, and he had pictured a simple daisy sprouting from the lines in his palm.

 

As the small white blooms had formed in between breaths, he had looked up and seen Thomas watching him with those steady eyes.

 

Next to him, Miranda is already scribbling down some notes on her papers. Thomas's eyes meet his, and while he doesn't say anything, but a smile starts to form on his face.

 

James can't help but to reflect it. "That was - " and James doesn't know how to finish his sentence.  _Wonderful_  seems too trite,  _everything_ , too committed.

 

"Yes," Thomas says, too quiet, and he's looking at James with that intensity, now familiar, enough so that James has to look away, at Miranda to avoid being caught in it. 

 

"I suppose this means you'll want to go under again," Miranda says. She doesn't look upset at the idea, but she has a considering look in her eye as she looks at him. "Well?"

 

"I'd like that," James says truthfully, and now, with both Miranda and Thomas giving him that smile, he finds that the cold is chased away from him entirely.

 

"You'll need a totem," Thomas says. "Something that you can check to make sure you know you're out of the dream."

 

James frowns. "Like what?"

 

"I use this," Thomas says, and he holds up his wedding ring. "There is an engraving on this that only I know. In the dream, there is nothing, see."

 

"You tell no one your totem," Miranda adds, "So that no one will ever be able to convince you that you're not in a dream." She looks serious now, as does Thomas. "Find something that you can keep on you, and tell no one."

 

 

 

•••

 

 

 

"Lieutenant McGraw," a voice calls out. "Is that you?"

 

James slows to a stop as the man approaches. "Pickram," he says in return, evenly. He never likes stopping in the hallways in the base - too much fluorescent lighting, the smell of bleach everywhere. Down the hall a bit, two guards stare ahead of them, machine guns always at the ready. Pickram's presence does nothing to help that, either.

 

"They've kept you on that Hamilton case then?" Pickram asks. James has never liked the man, but something about his tone makes his insides curl nastily, especially when the other lieutenant looks him up and down. "You look rather... well-rested, considering the difficulties we've heard you've been having."

 

"It has been a challenge, convincing both of them," James admits through his teeth. "I'm heading to the admiral this moment - "

 

"I suppose they would be a challenge," Pickram says conversationally like he hadn't said anything. "Ms. Barlow didn't like me too much, I'll say. Maybe your sort is more to her taste?"

 

"Professor Barlow," James corrects, then shortly says, "I must be on my way."

 

"You heard why they got divorced, then?" Pickram calls after him, and James slows down before he can help himself. He can nearly hear Pickram's grin around his next words.

 

"Word is, she caught him in bed with one of his students," Pickram says, "And if that wasn't injury enough, she found out that the rumors were true, that her husband's a fag-"

 

The satisfying crunch that Pickram's nose makes under his fist is rather worth the guard on the end of the hall putting handcuffs on him, James thinks.

 

A quarter of an hour later, Admiral Hennessey is pacing, livid, in front of him. "Of all the  _stupid_  decisions to make," Hennessey says, "And you were willing to risk your standing on this task to pick a fight like a schoolboy?"

 

"I am sorry, Admiral," James says, as he holds the icepack to his swollen hand.

 

"Your apologies have no use to me right now, nor the concussed man in the infirmary right now, Lieutenant," the admiral snaps.

 

James keeps on looking straight ahead, thinks of the sound that Pickram's head had made when connecting to the white tiled wall. "Sir, Lieutenant Pickram had attacked the character of Professors Hamilton and Barlow, and I felt I had to defend - "

 

"I don't care to hear your justifications," the admiral says sharply, and James bows his head. "You are  _incredibly_  lucky that I called off the potential for a court marshall."

 

"Sir?"

 

"Your work here is too important," Hennessey says grimly. "You are the sole connection we have to Hamilton and Barlow, and if we put you on trial, we risk that."

 

"Sir," James says, "I do apologize - to put you in this position." He looks up and meets Hennessey's eyes. "Forgive me, but I will not apologize for Pickram."

 

Hennessey studies him, something in his jaw jumping. "James, I've known you for a long time," the admiral says. "You're an intelligent man, and a good one at that - but the day will come when I can no longer protect you from yourself. Please, be careful."

 

"Sir - "

 

"You're dismissed," the admiral says curtly, and James has no choice but to walk out.

 

 

 

•••

 

 

 

He goes under again, and again, and again, with Thomas and Miranda. With every trip into the dreams, he learns of the possibility that they have, the unparalleled ability to create and morph as far as the mind can go - and then some. Whatever mistrust that Thomas or Miranda had had for him slowly melts away, as he watches them work, and he does little more than observe the craftsmanship at play.

 

Hennessey had been furious when James had eventually told him that he had gone under into the dreams. The anger after the incident with Pickram was nothing like the way he had shouted at James in his office then, James unable to do more than to weather the storm.

 

But when he had told the admiral that they had never suffered a single mishap, he had given James only a hard look, and then the next day, a list of concepts that the Admiralty wanted Thomas and Miranda to consider - for theoretical knowledge, they had called it, but James knows tactical research when he sees it.

 

"Inception," Miranda reads, and she crumples up the rest of the papers, a sour look on her face.

 

"You believe you can do it?" It's just the two of them awake at the time, both watching Thomas as he dreams by himself. He had said something about testing out how big he could make a location without a certain loss of detail, and Miranda had created some special formula to try to extend the dream's landscape that he was to report back on.

 

Miranda crosses her arms. "It's easy enough to convince someone of anything when you go enough layers down," she says. "It's making sure you don't get caught up in your own fantasy that poses the real challenge, so you know you've done it in the first place."

 

"What do you mean?" He's been trying to get his head wrapped around this, but he finds himself asking more and more questions the more he learns - luckily, when it comes to teaching, Miranda Barlow has the patience of a saint, and knows more about dream-sharing than possibly anyone else in the world.

 

"Limbo," Miranda says. "There is a point when you go down too many layers in the dream - a dream within a dream within a dream - and you can't get out. The sheer amount of time you would spend on that lowest level - it would be  _years_  - "

 

Thomas gasps awake, then, and Miranda frowns, checking the timer. "Did it fail?" she asks, her attention entirely on him.

 

"Ah, no," Thomas says, a hand on his chest. James goes to him, takes the needle out of his arm as Thomas says, "I had to end it prematurely."

 

Miranda looks down in the way that James comes to recognize as her hiding any anxiety with a studious frown, while James puts a small plaster over the needle mark. "You can end a dream early?" James asks as Thomas looks at her with something heavy in his eyes. 

 

"You can," Thomas answers after a beat, looking up at him. "Unfortunately, it requires a rather violent end."

 

"Violent?"

 

"You have to shoot yourself in the head," Miranda says, sharp, "Or throw yourself off a building, start a fight with a projection, drown yourself - so which was it this time, Thomas?"

 

Thomas doesn't answer. After a tense moment, Miranda gets up too quickly. "I'll be running these solutions," she says rather darkly and leaves the room. The notes lay abandoned on her desk, as James looks at Thomas.

 

After another moment, Thomas rises as well. "I'll be back shortly," he tells him, before following his ex-wife, still rubbing his arm. James watches him go, and he feels something tight in his chest - unknown and uncomfortable - as he thinks about the failed attempts at dreams he had read about in their past research.

 

 

 

•••

 

 

 

When Hennessey and the others had urged him to get more information, James has started to keep some details from them. When they had started to insinuate that they wanted him to convince Thomas and Miranda to bring other people into the dreams, other than James, he goes to the two professors first.It's not out of any misplaced jealously on his end, he's quick to say, but he doesn't feel that it's right to bring anyone into this space.

 

Both of them, however, seem to agree. "We can work with your presence, James, but to bring someone else in here - " Thomas trails off.

 

"We both agreed to it, which is why our projections are never bothered by you," Miranda says. "Your superiors can't force it upon us, as I'm sure they know, because even on a subconscious level, we could never allow the dream to progress with such an unwanted influence."

 

James is surprised by that. "I don't distract either of you?"

 

"James," Miranda says, "Thomas has created some of his strongest dreams that I've ever seen with you there."

 

So he tells the superiors that they are both too wary at this point, liable to forsake them if they were to press.

 

But more importantly, his superiors don't know that sometimes, he goes under with Thomas or Miranda for no other reason than to see them create these worlds. Sometimes, when he's off duty, he'll visit their offices and request them to let him in - let him see what they're working on.

 

He would call it a loss of faith in his command, but he thinks that it's not a loss if he's found it in another place, in other people - and that's a terrifying thought, to shift his world in this matter.

 

"When we were married, we would talk about the potential of dreams," Thomas says. In the dream, he's warping metal wire around a mirror, creating a ladder that seems to go straight into the ground beneath them like the grass is merely air. "She was the one to figure out how to chemically induce lucidity in a way that it could be shared in a single system. I'm incredibly lucky that she thought that I could help in any way, in the end."

 

"How long were you together?" James asks, with true curiosity. Despite their divorce, and the ugly words he's heard about it, he's seen no evidanimosityminosity between Thomas and Miranda. In fact, they seem to be closer than anyone he's ever met in his life, far from scorned spouses.

 

"Ten years," Thomas says. "Married as soon as we both were eighteen."

 

"Ah," James says, feeling little awkward. "I don't mean to pry - "

 

"Is there something you'd like to know?"

 

"I had heard - " and James stops.

 

Thomas looks amused. "What is it?"

 

"Nothing," James says, even as he tries to imagine Thomas betraying Miranda's trust in the way that Pickram had suggested, and finds he can't quite picture it. "Sorry."

 

"I'm sure you've heard the stories of my father," Thomas says instead. James watches as he rubs his fingers together, and the ladder duplicates in a mirror image, forming an arch high above them. "No love lost there, I can assure you. Miranda married me so that I could receive a portion of my inheritance after my great-aunt's passing, and go to school."

 

"And you separated afterwards?"

 

"Ah, not quite," Thomas says. "It was a mutual decision, though born out of love."

 

"That's - " He doesn't want to say  _rather pragmatic_ , but Thomas smiles faintly like he knows the words.

 

"Miranda and I were always close," Thomas says, "I love her dearly, but not in that way."

 

Oh. "I see."

 

"James, as much as I'd like to speak about this with you, we do have a timer running," Thomas points out. "I promise you can ask me anything you'd like on the surface, however."

 

James thinks that only in dreams does he have the sort of courage to ask such questions, however.

 

"Of course," he says, and he watches as the sunlight shifts into brilliantly colored glass, filling the gaps in the metal around them until they're surrounded in translucent color. James glances over, and he memorizes the way that Thomas's face is cast into the multicolored light, as he peers up at his work like Michaelangelo at the completion of the Sistine Chapel, and James his witness.

 

 

 

 

•••

 

 

 

He gets more of the story from Miranda.

 

"Alfred is a vile man," she tells him. Thomas is at a conference, and so James and Miranda had found themselves going to a nearby pub after another successful dream. "There are few men that I have ever truly hated, and he is the worst of them, of that I have no doubt."

 

James takes a long drink from his beer. When he finishes, Miranda continues, "We married young so that if - if Alfred put him in the hospital again, I would be allowed to see him, be with him so he wouldn't have to be alone."

 

Horror fills him, but he keeps it inside for now, gritting his teeth instead. Miranda says, rather calmly, "If he hadn't kept his distance after that, if he hadn't become estranged - I would have killed him."

 

He can't help his sharp inhale of breath. "You can't say that."

 

"Why not?" Miranda says, a challenging look in her eye. "Is it his position that bothers you?"

 

"You're a good person," James says. "You shouldn't have to make such threats."

 

"Shouldn't, or can't?"

 

"Someone should," James says. Behind him, someone sets down a glass a little to heavily, and it breaks the moment, as Miranda lets out a long breath in turn.

 

"I wonder what it would have been like, if you had met us earlier," she says. "If you would have convinced me out of my threats, or maybe you would have assisted."

 

"I'm not sure anyone could ever convince you of anything you didn't want, ma'am," James says, and she lightly kicks him under the table.

 

"Such impropriety," Miranda says teasingly. "I miss when you were a proper lieutenant, too scared to step out of line."

 

"I'm not sure I've ever been proper," James tells her, and even after all this time of getting to know her, he's surprised at how easy it is to be honest with her - with both of them. "I don't think I've ever belonged."

 

"No one that should belong ever feels that way," Miranda tells him, and the corner of her mouth curls up a little. "Perhaps that's the lure to controlling dreams, to share them. Perhaps we're all trying to find what truly matters, whatever follows us into the minds of others, and we can show others who we truly are."

 

James feels hot, then, and it's nothing to do with the alcohol - and everything to do with her dark eyes roaming over his face at this time. "Do you think anyone can ever truly be honest with another?"

 

"I think that we all strive to be honest some of the time, with some people," Miranda tells him, and now she gives him a slow smile. "Are you honest with me?"

 

He can feel Miranda's foot curl around his ankle, and he should be surprised, or move away - but instead, he asks, "Do you want another drink?"

 

"James," Miranda says. "How about I call a cab instead?"

 

A few minutes later, they're in the car. Miranda's got her hands in James's hair as he kisses her neck, his own hands around her hips, keeping her close. He's careful to be gentle with her even as she tugs at his head, her stocking catching on the rougher material of his trousers, her nails digging into his scalp as he muffles a groan into her neck.

 

"Hey!" the driver shouts, tapping on the brake so that Miranda slides forward, and James is forced to concentrate on catching her so that she doesn't fall off his lap. "Not here, you hear me?"

 

Miranda catches his eye, and then they're both laughing too hard to breathe, ducking their heads next to each other.

 

Before long, they're in James's apartment. He's never liked this place - too sterile, evident of a lonely life dedicated solely to his work. But Miranda barely gives the place a second glance as she pulls James in for another hungry kiss, and he forgets about the lack of furniture with her hands on him, her weight on top of him.

 

He thinks he hadn't been lonely in a long time, ever since he met them.

 

 

 

•••

 

 

 

 

Thomas returns from his conference, and he greets Miranda with a kiss on her cheek and James with a quick hug. If he cares at the revelation that James is sleeping with his ex-wife - when Miranda presses a quick kiss to James's mouth when he hands her her notebook -he doesn't let it appear one bit.

 

He thinks that if anything, Thomas's eyes linger a little too long on the bruises on his neck as he adjusts James's PASIV line in his arm. But that could just be him reading too much into this new dynamic, the new situation.

 

In Miranda's dream, her version of the city in which she was born, there are far more projections than in Thomas's. James's admiration of Thomas's creations is rivaled by the experience that Miranda's are - all clear perspective and organized landscape, more compact and intricate than Thomas's, more to explore with every corner.

 

James drags his eyes past the neon signs that are neatly stacked at a sharp angle against a skyscraper. Miranda's dark hair is illuminated in that bright pink color as she leans forward, the cobblestones lifting her into the air as the signals continue to grow higher into the sky, as the two men watch her.

 

"Dear," Thomas says, "Do you think you want to try the Penrose steps?"

 

"Just a moment," she calls down, although her voice is as crisp as if she was standing right next to them. "I want to see if I can make these into that fractal."

 

James glances over to Thomas. He looks tired, which is unusual because Thomas generally looks rejuvenated by the dreams, caught up in the power of creation.

 

As if he can read his mind, Thomas meets his eye, smiles a little. "I'm afraid my lack of energy has followed me," he says. "I talked to my father yesterday."

 

"Your father?" James wills himself not to inject any disgust into the word. "Did you find him at the conference?"

 

"He found me on my way out," Thomas says. "He wants a reconciliation, now that I've  _divorced that horrid woman_ , he says."

 

"Oh." James struggles to keep his face even. "And - you'd want that?"

 

"Absolutely not," Thomas says. "But I've learned that when my father suggests something, he really means that he doesn't want the answer I'll give him."

 

James hesitates. "Thomas - "

 

"I think you should create a dream," Thomas says suddenly to James, who startles at the change in topic - like he's avoiding something.

 

"What?"

 

"We've been in your head, and you've come up with a template," Thomas says, "But you've never tried to create an entire world, have you?"

 

"I thought that it would be too risky," James says, after a beat. "I have none of the experience that you nor Miranda have - and to be honest, I don't think I'd be any good at it."

 

"I think you're one of the most brilliant minds there is," Thomas says sincerely, and now James can feel his mouth part. "I think that if you wanted to, that would be a remarkable thing to witness indeed - "

 

Before he can finish, though, there's a strange grinding sound, like when Thomas or Miranda move a gigantic building or mountain. James frowns, looking up and trying to find Miranda. "Miranda?"

 

There's coughing, then. For a moment, James doesn't give it any notice, figuring it some strange projection. Only the coughing gets worse, and he looks back down to see Thomas on his knees next to him.

 

"Thomas?" James gets on the ground next to him, reaches for him. "Thomas!"

 

"Just - " Thomas gasps between coughs, "I need - "

 

His hand goes to the back of Thomas's neck, trying to do anything. James looks up, trying to find Miranda to get her aid, so he misses the fact that Thomas conjures up a gun until he catches sight of the barrel against his chest. 

 

"J- " Thomas starts, before coughing again. James is frozen as Thomas presses the muzzle to just below his ear, and James looks into his eyes just as he squeezes the trigger.

 

He's been around enough guns to know the sound, but James flinches violently anyway. Only instead of blood splattering his face, Thomas is gone, and he's left with nothing in his hands, just the dread tight in his chest.

 

"James?" Miranda is standing above him, looking confused. "Where did he go?"

 

"I don't know," James says, "Miranda - please - " and she nods, and he thinks he sees a glint of metal before he's waking up from the dream.

 

 

 •••

 

 

He's sitting up as fast as he can when he gets out. He blinks in the bright light, only to focus on Thomas's back, sitting away from him.

 

"Are you all right?" James asks once it's clear Thomas is no longer coughing. Only Thomas doesn't look back at him, doesn't move even as Miranda wakes up across from them with a quiet gasp.

 

She looks between them, and then at Thomas. James can't see his expression, but something cold goes through him at the sight of pity on her face. He starts to reach out.

 

"It's brain cancer," Thomas answers, and James goes still. He didn't - "One of the tumors is growing near my thalamus. We think - it might have been aggravated by the Somnacin. Maybe it would've been inevitable."

 

"Thomas," James breathes out, fingers stopping midair on his way to touch him.

 

"In a matter of months, I won't be able to dream anymore," Thomas says, sounding much too calm. "Then I'll lose my sight, my other senses - "

 

"Thomas," James says again like he can say  _I'm sorry_  through the word. He's touching the back of Thomas's arm now, and he feels guilty as the press of his fingertips causes Thomas to take in a small breath.

 

"My father told me he heard I was seeking experimental treatment," he says to Miranda as much as James. "He even offered to pay. What he wanted though - "

 

"He wanted you to sign over the rights to your work," Miranda realizes, and James watches as a shadow passes over her face. "It's not about money - he wouldn't  _dare_ \- "

 

"I can't give it up to him," Thomas tells her. "With the treatment, he has a chance to use the soldiers he's trained and try to get my research from my head. What we have achieved here - I won't have him ruin it all." He looks over to her, and James is caught by the angles of his profile, the twist in his expression. "He knows you're working with me - both of you. He threatened both of you - and I  _laughed_ , Miranda, I was so frightened at the thought that he could affect either one of you, let alone me." 

 

He's not sure he's ever seen that particular level of pain on Miranda's face. "Thomas," she says again, then looks at James - for help, maybe, or perhaps she just needs to see that she's not alone in such despair.

 

"I want to make it public," Thomas says out loud, and James is surprised at the insistence in his voice. "The technology. I don't want dream-sharing to be in the military's grasp - out of his grasp."

 

After a moment, James nods too, swallowing the devastation he can feel like an ache through him, even though Thomas can't see. "I agree. But the public - "

 

"I want  _anyone_  to be able to experience this," Thomas says insistently. "To see what they might believe is impossible, to make it within their grasp - to use it for good. Miranda calls me naive to say that - but right now, it will only be used for profit by men like my father."

 

His fingers tighten on the edge of the chair. Miranda says, "You would publish our research?"

 

"You can't," James says, soft even to his own ears, and he drops his hand. Finally, Thomas turns to face him, and James can't hide whatever's on his face now. "If the Admiralty were to find out that you planned to release such information - they couldn't risk the chance that people then might investigate what they've been doing with similar technology as well. They would call you a traitor, arming their enemies - you'd be dragged through the mud."

 

Thomas sighs like he's expected this. "Do you think we live in a world where people should not be allowed to dream like this?"

 

"I think we live in a world where people are more than happy to put labels on those they cannot comprehend," James says. He thinks of that arch Thomas had created, the colored lights that had floated like drops in the air around them then reassembled to look like a spider's web high above their heads. He thinks of the light on Miranda's hair, on the bridge of Thomas's nose. "This - I could have never imagined seeing any of what you've shown me."

 

"The labels they affix," Thomas repeats, "We should fear them, then?"

 

"We shouldn't have to."  _You shouldn't_. "You're a good man. People should say that. And," and James barely lets a pause slip through before he utters, "Someone should be willing to defend that."

 

Thomas looks right at him. James can hardly breathe, feeling like the light has been diverted straight toward him, filling his every cell with color.

 

Then Thomas is leaning forward, and his cool, dry hand goes to the side of James's jaw. He breathes out, warm on James's mouth, and he kisses him, both leaning across to meet in the middle.

 

They don't speak, as James holds his shoulders. He thinks he might whisper something, or maybe that's just the sound that Thomas makes when James tilts his head, feels Thomas's broad palm move a little lower, head tilted right into him, as they move even closer.

 

 

 

 

•••

 

 

 

 

On a rainy day, they take him.

 

Miranda reaches out with a trembling hand, although she looks furious like her body's betraying her, her eyes swollen and red like James's. "They must have found out," she whispers, like they can't be overheard, as he gapes at her, his ears buzzing. "They knew where the surgery was going to be. I don't know how - "

 

"Where is he?" James demands, trying to look into her face. "Where did they take him?"

 

"He's in a coma - " Miranda stops, looks like she's trying to compose herself. "They transferred him to another section. They stopped me from seeing him."

 

"We go and get the first doctor," James decides in between sharp gasps - coming from him or her, he's not so sure anymore. "That's not what he - they can't just - "

 

"You're not married to him," she says, and James can feel the fresh pain sprouting between his ribs, choking him just as effectively. "I'm no longer married to him. Alfred is his next of kin - and they did what he wanted."

 

"Then we break him out," James says grimly. "We do  _something_  - I'll go to the admiral, he might be able to help."

 

"They won't even tell me if he made it," Miranda says, and then she's crying into his shoulder. As he holds her, James tries to take in more air, tries to relieve the stinging in his lungs, but it hurts too much to even just breathe.

 

 

 _Thomas_  -

 

 

 

•••

 

 

 

"Sir," James says, and he catches Hennessey's attention from down the hallway. "Admiral Hennessey - I need to speak with you, please, sir - "

 

The admiral does a double take, then seizes his arm. James is too surprised to do more than follow along as Hennessey pulls him into his office, closing the door quickly behind them.

 

"Sir, there has been a situation," James starts, but Hennessey just looks at him with horrified eyes.

 

"James, you need to get out of here," he hisses. "I would think you have more sense than to show up here - "

 

"Sir?" James echoes. He's sure he looks a disaster, not having slept since Miranda had woken him up, but it doesn't explain -

 

"They have a warrant for your arrest," Hennessey tells him. "They sent out a squad to bring you in just now."

 

It's becoming a horribly common feeling, the unpleasant shock of cold down his spine, at this point. "I was at Miranda's," James slowly realizes. "What did they say - sir, please - "

 

"They say you sold intelligence to foreign powers," Hennessey says heavily. "James - tell me you did not do it."

 

"Never," James says, "You have to believe me- "

 

"It's out of my hands," the admiral says. He looks withdrawn, pale. "This goes above me. You need to get out - get as far away as you can." He reaches into his desk, pulls out an envelope as James watches. "Take the woman if you can. I told you to be careful, son."

 

The envelope of cash makes the suitcase in his possession feel that much heavier. He gets a taxi right outside the alley where the emergency exit opens up to. James breathes in and out, controlling his breath, as he tells the driver to get him to the hospital.

 

 

 

 

•••

 

 

 

In the hospital, James keeps an eye on each of the guards he passes, a hand brushing nearby the gun at his waist. He's not sure what sort of security Alfred Hamilton might have imposed to try to prevent exactly this, but he's not going to risk them moving Thomas in order to take the time to wait.

 

Only when he gets to the hospital room, sequestered off any of the other hallways, a guard steps forward. "This is a restricted - " he gets out before James shoots him right in the head. 

 

The silencer muffles most of the sound, but he still checks the door on the far end once he takes care of the two other guards. Then he's slipping into the room, closing the door behind him.

 

Thomas is lying prone in the bed, bandages on his head. "I'm going to find you," James promises, as he opens up the suitcase containing the PASIV, puts one in his arm, the other in Thomas's. "Just don't go too far under where I can't follow."

 

 

•••

  

 _Thomas_ -

 

But there's only darkness.

 

•••

 

 

He wakes up once again, only there are handcuffs being put around his wrists, the cold steel biting at his skin, the PASIV tubing already removed and splayed out on the bed between Thomas's still feet. 

 

"Lieutenant McGraw, you do not have to say anything at this moment, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court - " 

 

 

•••

 

 

He spends four long days in the cell of the military prison. Without any contact with the outside world, he's forced to wonder if they got Miranda. If they got Thomas -

 

He spends the time thinking about precisely nothing, unable to consider anything when he's stuck in this form of limbo all by itself. When he manages to sleep, he doesn't dream. 

 

On the fifth day, James jerks his head up when he hears footsteps. The door to his cell opens, and he squints in the light - he didn't think he would see that for several more days.

 

Two men come in, and they drag him up to his feet. One of them puts a bag over his head, and they lead him out. 

 

He's starting to forget the layout of the place as they make countless turns. He's surprised when he's brought outside, the fresh air rustling through his hair, before being put into the back of some van.

 

Maybe they're getting rid of him, finally. James lets himself think of Miranda.  _I'm sorry I didn't get to say goodbye to you too -_

 

Only when the bag is yanked off his head, he's in some warehouse. He's still in handcuffs, but the bald man sitting across from him doesn't look like he's about to kill him.

 

They stare at each other for a long moment, before the man huffs like he's amused. He picks up the file under his chair, flips it open.

 

"Lieutenant James McGraw," the man reads off. He glances up. "That is you, correct?"

 

James doesn't say anything.

 

"Right. Affiliated with Professors Thomas Hamilton, Miranda Barlow?"

 

He remains silent.

 

"You killed three men. They say you sold intelligence," the man says then. "But I have to wonder, was it really because of that that they arrested you, or was it because of the PASIV you had in your possession?"

 

He tilts his chin up, defiant.

 

The man sighs. "She warned me you'd be like this," he mutters. "I'm not here to throw you back into that pit, you know."

 

James finally rasps, "Who are you affiliated with, then?"

 

The man smiles a little, but it doesn't travel far up his face. "Miranda Barlow set me," he says. "Lieutenant McGraw, my name is Hal Gates, and I have a proposition for you."

 

"Miranda," James breathes, now searching his face. "How did you get that name?"

 

"She's in a stickier spot than even you right now, since she released all of her research on dream-sharing," Gates tells him, and James briefly closes his eyes. "That woman of yours, she's created a bloody criminal empire out of nothing - it's a different world, now, one that Miranda Barlow has born." 

 

"I need to see her," James says, and he starts to violently pull at the handcuffs, enough so that the man jumps a little. "I need - "

 

"I'll take you to her," Gates says, "Lieutenant, please - "

 

"No," James interrupts, and he stops. If what he's saying is true - if Miranda has gone with this - 

 

For whatever reason, he thinks of his mother's father. A surly man, a fisherman who had once told James that the only thing he could trust in this world was himself, who had buried gold in the backyard rather than trust another soul with the wealth. That man had been something like a father to him, once, before he had gone off with Admiral Hennessey and dedicated his life to an institution whose corrupted hands had ripped his heart out of his chest. 

 

Now he has something of his own to bury.

 

 _Forgive me, Thomas_. 

 

"Not Lieutenant," James says, feeling hollow. "I go by Flint."

 

"James Flint," Gates says like he's testing it. He seems satisfied. "Now, tell me, have you ever stolen something out of someone's head?"

 

 

 

•••

 

 

 

In the middle of the night, James wakes up. He reaches out, expecting to find the curve of Thomas's shoulder there, but the bed is empty.

 

The sheets are still saturated with warmth, though, and so James slowly gets up. He pads into the living room, where Thomas is sitting on the couch, arm over his eyes.

 

"Headache," Thomas says after a moment. The sweat on his neck gleams from the muted television in front of him. "Insomnia. Both unfortunate symptoms, I'll have you know."

 

James kneels in front of him, reaches up to rub the sides of Thomas's head like he usually does to soothe the pain, but Thomas gently stops his hands. 

 

"I can't remember my dreams anymore," Thomas says into the space between them. Quietly, like he doesn't want to disturb him, as his thumbs brush against James's wrists. "When I wake up, I don't remember if I'm still in the dream, or maybe I'm just down another level yet."

 

"Your totem," James says because he doesn't know what else to say. "Check - "

 

"I got rid of it," Thomas whispers, like he's afraid to tell James, yet it's like a blow to his gut.

 

"When?"

 

"A few weeks ago," Thomas says. "I had a dream where I wasn't sick. Where my father wasn't around. Where I told you I loved you the day we first went into a dream together - " he stops, has to collect himself. "When I woke up - I realized that's all it was. That's all I had, just remnants of a better life for all of us."

 

"Here," James says, and he pulls away just enough to reach behind him, to the third shelf on this particular bookcase, until his fingers find the familiar ridge of the binding, feeling something rise within him. 

 

It's a book that Thomas had given him shortly after they had kissed, a copy of Marcus Aurelius's  _Meditations_  - one that Thomas had inscribed for him. James hadn't told him, but he had switched his, made the inscription inside his totem.

 

Thomas looks stricken at this. "This is your - "

 

"It's what I use," James says, and with Thomas's fingers still on his other wrist, he flips open the first page, shows him. "See?"

 

_My truest love - may the world's dreams be as free. TH_

 

"That's not what I wrote," Thomas says, as James goes to hold his hand, only he can't quite reach it, his nails just grazing Thomas's hand.

 

"I know," James says, his heart thudding in his chest - "Thomas, I swear to you, I'm going to find you - "

 

"You can try," Thomas says, and he's smiling, but his eyes are still cold. "But I don't care. Because you're the reason I ended up like this, isn't that true?"

 

 

 

•••

 

 

 

When Flint wakes up, he’s already clutching the sheets around him. His heart’s pounding like it’s going to burst through his chest, and he can still feel the sticky, humid air like it’s clawing on his skin. He can still feel the hand sliding right out of his, nails against his palm -

 

The remnant images from the dream blur on his eyelids. When he's finally able to release his grip on the sheets, he reaches over to fumble into the drawer beside his bed.

 

His fingers touch the small book, and he pulls it out as if it’s going to slip away any moment. The worn leather of the cover is some small comfort already, and Flint traces the ridges on the edges before flipping it open.

 

The words that are the confirmation he needs, and although he lets out a long exhale, his hands don’t stop shaking as he traces the handwriting over and over again, his fingertip catching on the paper’s grain every so often.

 

_My truest love -_

 

 

 

•••

 

 

 

"You say you lost him," Silver says, after they've let the silence settle between them. They're on the rooftop of some hotel in a city they'll both take their absences from a day from now, another place forgotten in the pages of their fake passports.

 

They had gone into a room together, only instead of Silver pushing him down on the bed or Flint leaving fingerprint-sized bruises on his thighs, Silver had turned around and he had asked him,  _Will you tell me_?

 

"I'm sorry," Silver says.

 

"Don't be."

 

"And her?"

 

"Dead," Flint says shortly. "Two years after we left." He had taken her mantle, her misery, and now look where he was. A murderer and a thief, sitting on a roof like they own the building.

 

"And Alfred?"

 

"I killed him," Flint tells him. The secrets escaping from his mouth travel as easily to Silver as the smoke going up in the air from the cigarette in Silver's hand. "That's when Billy died too."

 

"And then Gates," Silver says. "Jesus. The people closest you, they've all been lost to you."

 

Flint takes the cigarette from between Silver's fingers. He doesn't take a drag, but he's afraid of what else he'll say if Silver has something that keeps him from speaking.

 

Flint says, "That's not what I'm afraid of."

 

"And what are you afraid of?"

 

He stares down at the embers, the ash that's about to fall. He thinks about breathing the smoke into Silver's mouth, but if he touches him he'll start to crumble.

 

He wonders if Silver's ever lost anyone. He wonders what Silver would tell him if he asked.

 

But Flint says, "I have a flight to catch," and he leaves Silver alone on the rooftop.

 

 

•••


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back at it again!! enjoy this 10k update of Them Being Like This  
> (@ jamesbarlow on tumblr)

NOW

 

"It feels too crafted," Madi says as they walk side by side. "Too put together - just too much - " She presses her lips together, looking rather like she doesn't wish to find the words to finish her thought.

 

"Wrong," Flint suggests, after a moment. She nods tightly, her eyes still searching around them. "It's not effortless."

 

They're reaching the limits of the dream level. The buildings here are less detailed this far down, the fronts more a wash of color than any actual construction. The projection's faces around them are getting a little blurry like they aren't quite remembered in their entirety.

 

One of the projections bumps into his shoulder as they go by, and Flint resolutely doesn't turn to look - even as he can feel that look again, feel like someone is right there, if he just moved  - 

 

As though she can sense the need to interrupt his urge to turn, Madi says, "This isn't just his unconsciousness. I believe it's something John must have created before going down another level."

 

"It's not like him," Flint agrees, focusing on keeping up with her instead. "But he has to be somewhere on this level."

 

"We should start to make our way over," Madi says, guiding them with a subtle push of her shoulder against Flint's. He thinks she's a little taller in the dream, or maybe she just holds herself higher in her natural element. "If he picked a place to go under again, it's going to be somewhere where we have to fight to get through."

 

Flint looks around, trying not to gather too much attention to them. Now the projections are definitely sending them suspicious looks, like the outsiders they are.

 

They start to loop back around, crossing one of the avenues against the crowd. In between steps, Flint finally realizes why the streets feel familiar to him. How however odd-looking the buildings are individually, they're organized in such a way that he's surprised it took him this long.

 

He slows down a little, and Madi immediately glances over to him.

 

"They're in a spiral," Flint says.

 

Madi blinks. "What is?"

 

"The buildings," Flint says. "That's why this street's been curving while we're on it. It's been shifting around into this shape for some time now. We've been moving closer and closer this entire time - it's been forming around us, even as we've been walking away from where we thought was the center."

 

"Like a Fibonacci spiral," Madi realizes. "It's leading us _in_ \- "

 

"It must be. Despite his efforts at concealing all of this - "

 

"He wants us to find him." Madi actually stops walking. So that they don't attract more unwanted attention from the projections, Flint takes her arm, leads them both to a gap between the buildings. "Some part of him must want us here." 

 

They both stare across at each other.

 

"His mind must have created it to guide us in," Flint finishes. They look at each other, neither wanting to ask the question that they've both been considering since they went into the dream, lest the hope dies with the words they voice aloud. _If he's keeping us running around, it's either because he didn't want us to go after him, or something is keeping him away -_

 

"We need to get inside," Madi says suddenly. At once, Flint notices how the projections are starting to look even longer at them as they pass by the alley, a few even turning to shoot them hard looks. "This could take a few more hours, and we can't lose our advantage this early on."

 

As she speaks, one of the projections suddenly makes a beeline towards them from the street, his gait jerky in his visible anger - as is the sneer forming on his face. They both look at him, and in the same moment between breaths, Madi takes a step back while Flint steps up in front.

 

He waits until the projection's right there, his fist moving back to swing at him - at least projections aren't subtle about their aggression - and he quickly gets his arm around the man's neck, pulling up hard until he hears a snap and the projection goes limp.

 

As Flint lowers the body to the ground, Madi says, "This one goes up taller than the rest," and she cranes her head to look at the building above them, eyes darting back to him after a moment. "It'll put enough distance between us and them for some time."

 

Flint glances up. If they go up high enough, they might be able to escape the crowd of projections around them, but at the risk of further antagonizing them and inciting a riot where they will certainly be trapped."Okay," he says, "In case they follow - just go up as far as you can, no matter what happens."

 

She just nods.

 

As they go into the buildings, Flint feels the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. He recognizes the feeling like one when someone's watching him - but when he turns to glance back out onto the street, through the greenish glass that surrounds the atrium, he can't see anyone out there.

 

 

•••

 

THEN

 

 

"I don't think so," Silver says in response. Madi can hear the sheets finally slide to the floor with a light wispy sound, then the tap of his foot against the mattress as he starts to grow restless again. She'd drawn the curtains to avoid the bright midday sun from heating up the room, so time feels irrelevant now, passing as slowly as Silver's tongue had dragged over her ribs not an hour ago.

 

Madi attempts to focus on putting back in her earring, the twist of metal a little bent - regrettably from when she had cast them aside too quickly when they had gotten snarled in his hair - and now, it's proving to be a difficult task. "You think otherwise?"

 

"Flint is not _heartbroken_."

 

"I didn't say heartbroken." She catches her earlobe, tries again. "I said he's been hurt. You asked me what I thought of him, and I think that's what defines him."

 

"That sounds worse."

 

She rolls her eyes even though he can't see. "What would you say, then?"

 

"Defensive, maybe," Silver says. She thinks she sees him shift behind her in his reflection on the vanity mirror. "Stubborn, certainly. But any sort of heartbreak doesn't suddenly shed this grand light on him. It's not just his loss that explains him."

 

"And you believe you know him?"

 

Silver might say something under his breath, but before she can ask, he says, clearer, "He's not some anomaly in his pain. And who do you know that isn't running from some sort of pain in our circle?"

 

"He's an _anomaly_ , as you say, in that he's a different kind of danger," Madi says, sliding the earring back firmly until she can feel it fit on her earlobe. "You might think you know him, but men like him aren't ones that anyone truly knows. If what they say about him is true - "

 

"What they say about him?" Silver repeats. She can't find her other earring now, but she doesn't quite want to turn around to look for it, given the turn of this conversation and the incredulity in his voice. "What does that have to do with anything?"

 

Madi looks down at her fingers, dark against the fake white marble coating the top of the vanity. "You and I both know of his reputation," she says carefully. "You might know the man better than anyone else, but do you mean to tell me that you truly understand what he does? When you ask me what I think of him, it sounds like you're asking less of my opinion, and more asking yourself, just out loud."

 

"I - "

 

"If you want to talk about what you think drives him, I think you should recognize that he's able to show you what you think you want to know," Madi says, a little sharp. "That, I know for certain. If you wanted my opinion, you should know that I can only see a situation where the more you try to get close to him, the more resistance he is able to keep you away."

 

_The only person to rival him in that would be you, after all._

 

"I _do_ want your opinion," Silver says, and when she turns around, his hands are behind his head, the muscle in his biceps pulling just a little as he stares up at the ceiling. "It's complicated. It's always complicated with him. But I _know_ that - I know who Flint is, no matter how we stand in our friendship, however many contradictions seem to build up. I asked you because I seek to understand how something can become so complex the closer we get." She watches as his fingers twitch against his forearm. "How the better I understand him, the harder it is to tell where my perceptions end, and he begins."

 

"Then why ask me?"

 

"With you - " Silver huffs out a laugh, as his eyes go back to look right at her, like his gaze has been on her this entire time. "With us, it's easier."

 

Madi lifts an eyebrow. "Easier?"

 

She thinks that's as close to flustered as Silver can look. "Not _easy_ \- but without the complications," Silver says, a little pink to her amusement. "The closer we get, the more I am aware of how you keep yourself defined - and I wonder what made you construct such a place to keep yourself apart from others, from me."

 

From the day she'd met John Silver, she's seen who he is, who he tries to hide. Far away from this room, her mother had once warned her about men like him - and Madi had listened, had crafted herself in a way that means no one can get close enough to drive her away from what she wants. But John Silver, he's unlike others, and she's let him dangerously close enough, see her for who she is.

 

She's no fool. She sees the way John turns around Flint, sees the way he rotates around him even when they're not in the same room, the pull between him and Flint where he's at the center of his orbit. The way he looks at her in softer moments with that look in his eyes, it's not a far cry from the way he stares at him when he thinks no one's looking. It's not the sex that concerns her, it's the fact that men like John Silver will always be caught by impossible men like Flint. The potential for damage when such weight swings out of control, is let loose off its orbit -

 

"You speak of this space between us," Madi says, light enough. "Do you think we stand too apart?"

 

"I think you're too far away right now," Silver answers, and he spreads his legs a little in invitation. "Care to comment on that?"

 

Such matters are not to be thought of, not when the man is looking at her like _that,_ looking smug when he catches her looking at the lines along his abdomen. Madi stands when Silver stretches once more, his arms going high above his head.

 

She walks over to him, and halfway to the bed, the light catches on something on his hand. She sees her other earring, and Silver grins, letting the metal dangle a little more from his fingers.

 

"You're not just going to leave me here, are you?" he asks, that teasing lilt in his voice making something inside of her turn in a very different way.

 

Madi plucks the earring from his grasp, weighing it in her palm. Then she sets it on the table to the side of the bed.

 

"You're just going to let me walk away?" Madi asks, and she swings a leg over his waist, despite having already gotten dressed. Silver catches her by the hips, long arms coming down to help her to sit on top of him.

 

His hands go behind her then, squeezing. "I'd be a fool to," he says, as she leans down and kisses him. She likes this, likes the feel of his stubble, her fingers curling in his hair as his tongue swipes over the seam of her mouth.

 

Madi feels his muffled groan deep inside her as she moves her hips down, grinding them together. She thinks the harness from before might've fallen under the bed by this point, but she's not averse to this, feeling him start to harden under the sheets beneath her, her own breath growing tight in her chest as they rock together with slowly growing urgency. 

 

But then he makes a sound that isn't pleasant, and Madi pulls a little back. Her suspicions are confirmed when she sees the tightness high on his temples, like a wince not quite completed.

 

"It's the leg," Silver admits after a long moment, once he can't escape her raised eyebrows. Madi gets off him, goes to the other side of the bed, and he says, "Fuck, sorry - "

 

"Don't apologize," Madi says, watching as Silver pulls himself up until he's sitting up, hand going to massage just above the stump. She knows better than to ask if he wants help, so she nudges his other thigh with her knee.

 

When he looks up, she says, "I'm to blame in part for your recent physical exertion, after all."

 

"To be put through that kind of rigor by you, I'd give the other leg," Silver says with a smirk teasing the edges of his mouth, and Madi lets herself smile at that. She watches as he focuses on the leg, then, his brow knotting as he soothes the limb.

 

"You never told me," she starts, then stops.

 

Not looking up, Silver snorts. "I wasn't about to tell you to get off of me earlier, nor do I think you would've liked that, given the noises you were making."

 

"You've never told me what happened to your leg," Madi finishes. "You were missing it when I first met you."

 

"It happened a while ago." He smiles, a little crooked where he knows she can see it, and she sees the distraction for what it is. "We've known each other for a while too, haven't we?"

 

She doesn't fall for the diversion, watching as he kneads his own flesh.

 

"I suppose it is your turn to ask such a question," Silver says.

 

She still doesn't say anything.

 

After a moment, he nods as though deciding something for himself. Without glancing up at her, he says, "Are you asking?"

 

It's not true avoidance that she reads on him, just the kind of quick batting away that she knows he yields on instinct.She also knows by now, that if he truly doesn't want her to know, she won't learn of it.

 

"I am," Madi says. "Was Flint a part of it?"

 

"Flint and I worked in circles around each other for many years," Silver says. He shifts a little, and his thumb dig into right above his kneecap. "We hated each other, at first, those first few months. That job, after you left, it turned out badly."

 

"I had heard as much." Hal Gates had been a respected man, a friend of her mother's. Although she had never worked with him, she found herself surprised at the news of his death - especially the rumor was that it was his friend that had killed him.

 

"Flint and I were the only ones to get out," Silver says. "But my leg - it had happened before all of that." As though he can see the look on her face, he adds, "It's relevant because the reason Flint approached me all that time ago, even before he knew it, was that I'd been in dream-sharing longer than anyone else."

 

"That can't be," Madi says instantly. "You can't be much older than I am, certainly not older than Flint, even - "

 

"You forget that time dilates when you go under," Silver tells her, and she forgives him for the way his lips quirk a little at her. "Technically, we're all just that much older than anyone who's never put a PASIV in their arm. When Flint found me, I'd been working by reality's timeframe for two decades. Practice, I'll tell you, puts you leagues ahead of anyone else, even in dream-sharing."

 

Madi can count the years in her head, and either way, the math doesn't paint an optimistic tale. "You started when you were a child?"

 

"More or less," Silver says, as her mind spins. "Let's just say, if I was a fool when I met you - imagine what I was like a good number of years beforehand. And the young aren't exactly protected when there's so much to gain by others in anything, much less illegal dream-sharing."

 

Something sad knots in her chest. "John - "

 

Silver adds, almost as an afterthought, "I was mouthy, and I thought I could take advantage. I played my cards wrong, played two jobs off each other to collect on both sides. Someone found out, and when I woke up, they decided to take a much more brutal punishment."

 

In the hallway, they can hear voices go by, echoes that come and go along with footsteps muffled by carpeting.

 

"I suppose it's a good thing, that they're talking about going legal nowadays," Silver says with the kind of cheer that can in no way be fully honest. "I mean, we'll be out of some hefty paychecks, but I suppose it won't be long before they start putting it in laws. Flint says that the regulations will only serve those who can afford to break the law, but I suppose I can see the rationale behind trying to stop such horrors."

 

"The people who did that to you - " Madi stops herself. "What happened to them?"

 

"That's where it gets complicated," Silver says. "The main actors, they're in a few hospitals around the world, all in some mysterious coma. Totally unrelated to me, since it happened when everyone knew I was working a job far enough away from any of them. But, see, I know when I told Flint, he had the same look on his face that you do now."

 

He's looking at her, she knows, but she can't hide the horror on her expression. Silver says, "Flint joined the dream-sharing world later than most, you know, but he learned from some of the pioneers of the technology. I find it hard to believe that there are too many people out there who know what happened and had the capacity to do - that."

 

"I don't doubt your loyalty to him, especially after that experience," Madi says, careful as Silver's brow starts to furrow, and she adds, "But the line between loyalty and debt - "

 

"I don't owe him," Silver says. "The same way he doesn't owe me."

 

They fall into a silence, then, the way that Silver's eyes go back down to his leg, and Madi makes herself look up, away from him. She can feel his eyes on her, probing in a way that she thinks he might not even recognize the intensity of.

 

"He's my friend," Silver says with finality like they both know that _friend_ is scraping the top of that particular iceberg. He gets that lost look in his eye, going to a place where she knows she cannot follow. "I know you don't trust him, but - well. Pretend to trust me."

 

Madi thinks that part of her attraction to Silver is the darkness inside of him. That beneath the flirting and the easy smiles, there's something unknown growing in there, twisting, and it makes her breathless to touch the edges of. She thought that maybe the loss of his leg was the edge underneath his persona, but even now that she knows what it is - she finds that brings many more questions, not at all a simple explanation for everything she's seen in him.

 

She's heard that Silver killed as many men as Flint, after all. Flint might've put those men in a coma, but they say Silver is the one who executes them. 

 

Madi lets herself finally drag her fingers down his bare chest, tracing the lines of ink on his shoulder as he watches her with that heavy look - and so they lose themselves in each other for a little while longer.

 

 

 

•••

 

NOW

 

 

When they go through the lobby-esque doors of the building, it transforms before their very eyes. Nearly as quickly as Flint registers pale stone flooring and glass stairs, the lights drop inside, and it's transformed into dark woods and dusty red brick. 

 

"This place," Madi says, "It looks like where we stayed for the Berringer job."

 

Flint touches the wall to his left, the start of where the stairs curling around the room and over their heads on both sides of the lobby. "It looks _exactly_ like it," he says, looking around. He recognizes the edges of the gold elevator - now behind them - and touches the metal detailing that goes up the wall. It looks exactly like the one he had boarded with Silver just a few weeks ago - "He's set it up so that we recreated it, just now."

 

He starts to move to the stairs, only Madi lets out a small sound, and that makes him freeze. "That projection across the mezzanine," she says, eyes trained up. "It's looking right at you."

 

Flint looks up. Projections glare and make hostile gestures, but it's worth seeing if -

 

But instead, he finds Thomas standing opposite of them, across the lobby.

 

Thomas stares down at him with lines under his eyes, like he's spent an eternity in this place. His entire body stiffens like he's been shocked, as he meets Flint's eyes, then his gaze narrows.

 

The sight of him makes something low in Flint ache, then curdle with the guilt and agony that comes with seeing him like this. He thought he had this managed, as he's struck by the sight of him, even with the visible anger directed at them - at him.

 

"He shouldn't be here," Flint breathes out, and Madi's head jerks to him.

 

"You know him?"

 

"I - yes," Flint says.

 

Thomas takes a step down the stairs leading to them, and although he's still far away, both of them flinch. "If he's your projection," Madi continues, "Then _what is he doing in Silver's dream?"_

 

"It's me," Flint tells her, eyes unable to leave Thomas's projection. "Jesus - it must be from me, I'm the one creating him - "

 

"We need to go," Madi says, "Flint - _"_

 

Thomas takes another step, and then starts to walk in earnest towards them, speeding up the longer they stay still. Flint feels Madi's hand around his forearm, trying to get him to move.

 

"He's after me," Flint repeats, "Go - "

 

"No," Madi snaps, and she's pulling hard at Flint's arm until he's forced to go with her. They enter the elevator - helpfully open now, even as it's more Madi directing, Flint helpless to take his eyes away from Thomas moving across the lobby, to the bottom of the stairs they've just gone up.

 

Madi slams one of the buttons, and the doors close just as Thomas approaches. More and more projections are gathering behind him, as the elevator chimes, and Flint looks right into Thomas's unblinking eyes as the doors slide shut.

 

" _Fuck,_ " Madi says for him, gun in her hand. Flint closes his eyes.

 

 

•••

 

 

The elevator takes them up, the hum of the engine the only sound he can hear. The ride feels endlessly long, especially with the silence that seems to radiate out from the two of them, as Madi doesn't look at him.

 

"Are we going to the top?" Flint asks. He can picture the projections running up the stairs, chasing after them at this very moment. They can only hope that the stairs take them much more time. 

 

"We'll go as far as we can," Madi replies evenly. He's not surprised at the undercurrent in her voice, even as he imagines the cool weight of a Beretta in his hands, preparing just as she has.

 

"Is he someone you know?" she asks, and Flint looks down at the tight grip she has on the gun.

 

"Yes," Flint says, then before his throat closes too, "He's dead now."

 

"If you're seeing him -" 

 

"He's what caused the test dream to end, that one time during Berringer," Flint says. "I can't control when he appears."

 

He can hear Madi breathing, in and out. "How long has this been happening?"

 

"For some time."

 

"I would start talking if I were you," Madi says dangerously. "If you've been hiding this for that long - "

 

"I thought I had it under control," Flint says, breathing through his nose. "If I had known this would happen here - "

 

"If you're seeing him. you certainly don't _fucking have it under control_ ," Madi bites out. "Are you lying to me?"

 

"I'm not," Flint says. The elevator continues to rise, the numbers glowing as they ascend to yet another floor. "I - Christ."

 

"Did you kill him?"

 

"I loved him," Flint says. "And I don't know why he's in the dream."

 

The elevator begins to slow, and Madi looks at him, then at the panel. "We'll find somewhere we cannot be shot," she says, "And then, I think you should explain some more to me."

 

 

•••

 

THEN

 

Silver appears like a phantom in the night, if a phantom was in a loose button down and suspenders now around his hips, carrying a grease-dotted paper bag in one hand and a flip phone in the other like he hasn't disappeared in LA for the past eighteen hours. He discards a dark jacket on the couch in Flint's office, the suspenders quickly following.

 

Flint's eyes are starting to hurt from studying blueprints - it's been a basic but time-consuming job this time, paying well but requiring such late hours -but looking at Silver is less a relief, and more like staring right at the sun, he thinks. Silver lifts his eyebrows when Flint continues to look, sliding the phone into his pocket.

 

"What are you wearing?" he asks, when Silver just continues to look right at him, for once not actually saying anything.

 

"Just came back from some reconnaissance," Silver says. "And before you ask me, yes, it was important."

 

"Max needed you here today with trying out one of the levels with her," Flint says, flipping a page and looking down. "It's her that you'll have to convince tomorrow that your time was... well spent."

 

"She's not still here?"

 

"The others have left for the night."

 

"Well, I need you now," Silver says, still studying Flint - and that, Flint's used to. "I need to reach out to one of my contacts."

 

"What, now?"

 

"No time like the present, don't you think?" Silver leans on the side of the couch. "Come on. He'll know something about this Rogers business."

 

Flint thinks of the news clip he had been watching this morning, mind whirling even as he had been working on the job. "That's unrelated to what we're getting paid for right now."

 

"I could use the backup," Silver tells him. "Plus, when's the last time you left this room?"

 

He'd spent last night on the couch, and given Silver's deliberate glance over to it, they both know it. Flint toys with the corner of one of the papers, weighing the opportunity.

 

"Fine," he says finally. "I'm driving."

 

 

•••

 

While he drives, Silver smacks his lips under the guise of chewing a piece of gum, (" _Not in the car_ ," Flint had warned when he had pulled out a pack of cigarettes, first), puts his shoes up on the dashboard, and points out landmarks that Flint cares nothing about.

 

Flint drums his fingers on the wheel, wishing he could ignore every time Silver exclaimed over some postcard-looking site, getting fingerprints on the window like he can reach through the glass and touch the scenery going by in a blur.

 

Silver finally gives him enough direction, so that they pull up in front of a tattoo parlor. There's a painting of a mermaid on a scroll positioned in between the blinds and the glass of the door, a glowing neon sign that says _Open_ to the left.

 

"He used to be military too," Silver says.

 

"Used to?"

 

"Dropped out. Became some kind of informant, then went mostly to the civilian life.” Silver drums his fingers one more time on the seat under him. "Now, he sits on a treasure chest.”

 

“I hope that by chest, you mean information.”

 

“You know how I like shiny things.”

 

Inside the shop, there's a bearded man who frowns when they come in. "Can I help you?"

 

"I'll try not to take it personally that you fail to recognize me," Silver says. "I'd like to make an appointment."

 

"Name?"

 

"John Silver," Silver says, and Dooley rises like he's said something correctly. "Think you can make the time for a walk-in?"

 

"You're lucky it's not too late," Dooley says, then looks Flint up and down. "What about your friend?"

 

"Moral support," Silver says. Dooley jerks his head to the side.

 

"Not going by Little anymore, then?" Flint asks under his breath as Dooley leads them to some back room.

 

"Sort of became irrelevant," Silver says. "Besides, I like to keep my contacts on their toes."

 

"On their..." Flint trails off, frowns when he sees Silver looking with some interest at the art up on the wall of the back hallway. "Are you seriously getting a tattoo right _now_?"

 

"The man has his rules," Silver says, "Unless you'd like to volunteer?"

 

Flint sighs. "Just keep it quick.”

 

Inside a room tucked away in the back, Dooley points to the paper-covered bench, closing the door behind him. Flint notes the deadlock that he slides over. "So what's it going to be?" Dooley asks plainly, crossing his arms once again.

 

"Let's see." Silver considers the wall of flash art, as he starts to unbutton his shirt. Flint jerks his eyes to the vials of ink on the other counter. "What's... 34?"

 

"Skull and bones," Dooley says, crossing his arms. "Pretty common pick."

 

"Better not," Silver says, and he smirks at Flint. "Can you add onto an existing one?"

 

“Which one?”

 

"I got it many miles and years from here," Silver says, and Flint looks at where he gestures on his body. Silver’s finger traces ever so slightly over his own skin as he says, "Can you continue it into one of those shells?"

 

“I’ll do a sketch," Dooley answers, picking up a pencil. He’s not at a good angle to see it, so Flint cranes his neck, and Silver shifts a little.

 

"Surprisingly less obscene than I would've guessed," Flint says while Dooley starts. "What is it?”

 

"Nautilus shell," Silver says easily. “Want to see?”

 

Flint doesn't let his eyes linger, doesn’t answer. He looks down. They can hear the pencil scratching on the paper as Dooley draws, a few mutters under his breath.

 

He’s a coward. After another few minutes, just to break the silence that he swears he can feel Silver’s eyes cut right through, Flint asks, "Was that one another faraway gift?"

 

Silver taps his sternum like he knows that’s the one Flint’s referring to, where there's a scrawl of text that's became warped to the point that Flint can't make out the letters. “My first one. I’ll have to get roses or something to cover this one up.”

 

Dooley shows Silver something on a piece of paper, which Silver assents with a dip of his head.

 

Flint asks, “A mistake?”

 

"Call it sentimentality," Silver says.

 

Flint straightens up when Dooley comes back, pen now in his hand. Silver moves his head too, looking to where Dooley draws on his arm.

 

Silver says, "Dooley, do tell me - what have you heard about Woodes Rogers?"

 

Flint watches his expression, but Dooley barely glances up. "What about him?"

 

"I'm particularly interested in this bill he's put forward today," Silver says, "It would put rather a damper on Somnacin sales now, wouldn't it?"

 

"Damper for you and me, maybe," Dooley says. "By stopping anything coming over the border, he's guaranteed to control the supply here, then everywhere else. His old pharmaceutical company's looking into releasing a legal alternative."

 

Flint leans on the wall, on the other side of Silver. "How are they going to release Somnacin to the public?"

 

"Officially, it's a controlled sleep aid," Dooley says, glancing over to him, then back to Silver’s arm. "Not much use without a PASIV. Muldoon would be able to give you more information about the chemical changes."

 

"I'd hate to put whatever they come up with in my body," Silver says smoothly, then, "What's the word on its support?"

 

"Anyone's willing to support it to get ready for when it gets legalized," Dooley says. "This work?" 

 

"It's perfect," Silver says, not bothering to even look down. “When dream-sharing gets legalized, you mean?”

 

"I find that difficult to consider," Flint interjects. “Who would put their support behind it?"

 

Dooley shrugs as he picks up the machine. "Ever since the Barlow papers, anyone like Rogers has been keeping their eye on the long game. It's not a jump to think about the kinds of profit that could lead to if they can start putting stock in some sort of dream company."

 

"From the start, people have attempted to make dream-sharing legal," Flint says evenly. "Are you telling me that any politician gets interested, and past resistance to that concept goes away?"

 

"Not just any politician," Dooley says, stopping the buzz of the needle for a moment to look fully at him. "Rogers’s unique in his... tenacity, let’s call it. The technology's gotten better, and people have gotten less scared of the idea of digging around in their heads. Once you take out the crime deaths, they think it's not as dangerous.”

 

"Well," Silver says, "When they know that they're digging around in their heads, that is."

 

"Either way, it's changed," Dooley says. "Just not how it used to be."

 

"I've got a few more questions," Silver says as soon as he sees whatever's on Flint's face. "First of all, I'd like to know more about this alternative - “

 

 

•••

 

 

When Dooley's finished cleaning Silver's tattoo (and grudgingly allowing Silver to look through one of the dossiers he stashes underneath the leaking sink), he leads them back to the front of the shop.

 

"Well, I'd like to say I have had all my questions answered, but alas, there is more to be done," Silver says, rolling his shoulder under his shirt. "Although, if you can just clarify a rumor I’ve heard - "

 

"Bigger tattoo, you get more answers," Dooley says to him. He looks at Flint, appraising. "Unless you're next? You don't look like you'd need... moral support."

 

"He's got a thing about needles," Silver says before Flint can open his mouth. "But this has been illuminating, as always. Have a nice night."

 

He hands Dooley a roll of bills, which the man keeps in his hand. "Night," Dooley says, watching them as Flint follows Silver out to the car.

 

On the drive back, Flint keeps his thoughts to himself at first. Once he can tell Silver's been staring at the side of his head for enough time, he eventually says, "Do you think it'll get there?"

 

Silver snorts, leaning into the conversation as though he doesn't know Flint has been weighing his words for the past ten miles. "The law's always been slow until money gets involved," he says, adjusting his seat belt as he leans forward a bit, tugging at his shirt to better cover his freshly tattooed shoulder. "We have some more time before any of that."

 

"Why did you bring me?"

 

"Well, I know Dooley has a type," Silver tells him, "And if I could use you to keep his tongue loose to tell me what I needed - "

 

"Silver."

 

"He has the information about Rogers," Silver says with a quick shift to seriousness. ”I know you've been digging for that information too. You see it too, what’s happening here. Dooley’s ahead of the curve for this kind of speculation, but you and I, we could do something about it.”

 

Flint glances over, but his expression doesn't give anything away. In between street lights, he guesses there's little use in denying it, as Silver moving again, crossing his prosthetic over his other leg. "I do see it,” he says, letting the scale fall. “I’ve been looking into Rogers for a few months.”

 

"Can I ask how you got there?” 

 

"I suppose you won't take no for an answer."

 

"I might," Silver says. "But I suspect I already know that the reasons you've been looking into this new development, and I think I'm the only one you can talk to about it."

 

Flint keeps his eyes ahead of him. He says, "In the early days of dream-sharing, the aim was to make it public. It always was."

 

"You mean the military was generous with its concept?"

 

"No," Flint says. "I meant in the private circles of the technology before the military caught wind of it."

 

"This was with Thomas Hamilton?" Silver asks, and Flint concentrates on the road ahead of them, feeling something teeter in him.

 

"He wanted people to be able to use the technology for better," Flint tells him. "He thought it could change the world."

 

"And he thought he could just change the world on his own? That something set him apart from everyone else that much?"

 

An echo of a memory of Miranda comes to his mind then, dragged to the surface by Silver's words. Miranda had always been the first to look at the possible future critically when they had discussed the applications of their work - _it's our duty to do our best here and now_ , she once said, reading out loud as she drafts a note that they hoped she would one day release with their research, sitting on the edge of her desk - _for we invest in an idea that becomes more complicated the more we try to work through it. We do this not because we are special at this time, but because we have been given this chance to start this thing from a place of equality -_

 

"They had a vision," Flint insists, shaking free of his thoughts. "If it hadn't - if it had been a better time, if it had worked out in another way, Miranda and Thomas would have made it so cockroaches like Rogers would never be able to take advantage of any of it. It _should_ be public. People should be able to see what comes with that ability to look into minds.”

 

"Should it?" Silver asks instead. "That kind of power to change will, to see inside someone, it can be used badly - it is already, actually, but I don’t have to tell you that _._ Do we just trust everyone with that power?"

 

Flint shifts a little, focusing on the red-glare of the stoplight above them. "If it was public - if it was accessible, then there are ways to prevent misuse. People can train themselves to protect themselves if they are just given the chance."

 

"So it can just be used to control people who aren't afforded that right?" The car begins to move again. "You sound awfully sure that people will make the right decisions."

 

"The technology is known. It's been done. What's important is to now form the landscape to let people change, to adapt to the new world we find ourselves in."

 

Beside him now, though, Silver snorts. "People never change. That, I know."

 

Flint gives him a sidelong look. Silver says, "What?"

 

"I just find it ironic that you, out of all people, think that people can't _change_." He pulls up to the front of the building now, turning the key so the car falls silent. Out of the corner of his eye, Flint can see Silver rubbing the top of his own knee. "How many names have you gone through by now?"

 

"But I haven't _changed_. Not really."

 

"I think you have," Flint says, and he's surprised to realize that it's true. "You're different than when I first met you. So am I, for that matter. When all this.... started, I became someone else, the person I needed to be then."

 

"But what if we're who we were all along?" Silver's voice is quiet. Outside, a few raindrops start to fall on the windshield, the tiny sounds of the drops landing the only thing to concentrate on. "What if we don't change? What if we just find new parts of ourselves, or push down who we thought we were?"

 

"We just hope we can adapt," Flint says, watching the water run down the glass in turn. "I suppose it's a matter of perspective. But nothing is inevitable - we can make the future we see fit if we are willing to do what needs to be done. We can make ourselves different if we wanted to."

 

"What we need to be done," Silver repeats, then stops himself with something like an end of a laugh. "You make it sound so easy."

 

"It is," Flint says. "If you want it to be. And I think that if you set your mind to something - " and he can sense Silver looking at him - "You could do anything. I believe in that."

 

The rain begins to fall, harder and harder against the hot pavement. Flint's aware of his breathing, then Silver's. It's like something is building between them like the clouds overhead, but this time, it feels like there is nothing to break it, no sound or light to interrupt the process.

 

"Madi's got a job lined up in Beirut," Silver says at length, still looking at him. "For when this is over, if it’s wrapped up quickly.”

 

Flint nods. "It'll be done soon," he says, focused on his breathing still. “We can probably go under next week at the mark's dentist appointment, then you could still make it.”

 

"Yeah," Silver answers, a beat too late, then "It's really pouring out there, isn't it?" His voice sounds strange, a little strained.

 

Flint turns his head, just as Silver leans over the console, facing him. "It's just rain," he says, and Silver's much too close then, closer and more vivid than ever. Like he's warning him, he says, "Silver."

 

"Trust me," Silver says, and then he's leaning in even more - and Flint jerks his head back when he feels Silver's hand on his leg now, on the top of his thigh. He would be surprised, only everything starts to fit together just a little better - but also complicates because it could never be _simple_ with him -

 

"Why would I?" Flint snaps, but the bite is replaced with something else, he knows. Silver doesn't move. His own hands are still at his sides, as Silver continues to watch him, hand on his leg.

 

It’s the lack of surety of what comes next, that makes him add, “I don't know what you're trying - “

 

"You know what,” Silver says, nearly eerily calm, and his eyes flick down to his mouth. It’s only because Flint can feel the slight tremble in his hand that gives anything else away, as he says, "What were you saying about something inevitable?"

 

"What was it you said about being unable to change?" Flint says right back, his voice coming out too low, and he does, he _wants_ with that kind of thrill at the something that’s blooming there, but he thinks he might never leave this goddamn car if Silver pulls back now, laughs it all off, because he’s not sure that boundary can survive being danced across like that -

 

But then, Silver's closing the distance between both of them, kissing him just as the rumble of thunder starts overhead, and he finds that he doesn’t have to think about those boundaries.

 

Silver's nose bumps up against his, his tongue running ever so lightly against the seam of Flint's mouth- and this is such a _bad_ idea, he thinks to himself, before he finally gives in, dragging his teeth to tug atSilver's lower lip. He feels Silver's fingers tighten on his leg, as he gets his hands into his hair. He's caught between Silver's mouth on his, the hand creeping more up his leg, sliding between them, the noise that Silver makes into his mouth when he tugs him closer like he's making sure they can't separate again  -

 

They break ever so slightly apart when a flash of lightning lights up the back window. The thunder’s loud enough so Flint can't hear whatever Silver mutters into his mouth before they separate more.

 

"I've got a motel room two blocks away," Silver says, and he's breathing heavily. "No street parking there at this time, but I'm going to make a run for it - should take what, five minutes?"

 

Flint stares at him for a long moment, recognizing the out that's offered. He reaches behind Silver, opens the passenger door.

 

The rain starts getting into his car, but he can't be bothered, even as Silver's eyes go wide when the movement means Flint's more pressed against him, mouth in line with his neck.

 

"Three minutes," he says. "Get your key out."

 

 

•••

 

 

Silver wakes up alone the next morning. He's sure Flint had left before he went to sleep, but as he runs his hand over his neck - red, a little raw from stubble burn - he thinks that if it weren't for the physical reminder, he could've passed the memory off as some stormy dream.

 

"He's torched it," Max says when Silver walks into the building.

 

"What?" Silver asks, glancing around. He notices the shredded papers in the garbage bin, the lack of plans up on the wall. "Did we get burned?"

 

"Flint's just gone," Max tells him sharply. "He gave me notice early this morning. The job's off."

 

Silver keeps his expression blank, his mind stuttering. "I didn't know," he says, “I thought - the dental appointment -he didn't - " 

 

"The others think that he found a flaw too detrimental to our success," Max interrupts, and she picks up the briefcase that had been at her side. "They also think you're the last to know. I have a train to catch."

 

"Max," Silver says, "I'm sorry. I truly didn't know.”

 

"He left instructions if you care to be compensated for your time, too," Max says, and Silver looks down at the ground as the click of her heels goes by.

 

He smiles to himself, despite everything.

 

 

•••

 

 

Two weeks later, after Silver's mollified the right people, he walks into a sunny hotel suite overlooking Hamra Street.

 

Madi's already there, her binders of intel neatly stacked on the table. She's talking to one of the chemists for the job, as several other people are milling around, half of them already in shirtsleeves rolled up, a few studying some sketches laid out on a coffee table.

 

In one of the chairs behind her, Flint looks up. He looks tired, but when he sees Silver, he sits up, the eyes on him as penetrating as if he's trying to memorize every detail. 

 

Silver meets his gaze. When Madi turns to look at him, he just says, “What's the job?"

 

Flint gives him a barely imperceptible nod, and so it goes again.

 

 

 

••• 

 

NOW

 

Madi's back is turned to him as he finishes speaking. Flint watches her, sees the tense line of her shoulders, and even as she doesn't look at him, he prepares for her anger once again.

 

When she turns around, though, there's much less of the rage in her eyes than he would have expected as she gazes just beyond him. She asks, direct, "Did he know?"

 

"I told him," Flint says. "He saw him, once, in the Berringer dream, but he didn't know it was him then."

 

"But he did know." Madi turns at last. "If he knew who he was - "

 

"He didn't know him as I did," Flint says. "Whatever I told him, it couldn't have been him dreaming Thomas, then or now."

 

"I've heard of it before." At her sides, her fingers twitch. "People who are important, or those you've felt you've wronged in some way, they appear as manifestations of grief. Even in other dreams."

 

"I thought I'd buried that life." Flint tries to catch her eye, but she stays resolute. "I've given you no reason to, but you have to believe me. I wouldn't put you in that kind of danger."

 

"He meant a lot to you," Madi says, interrupting him. "That much is clear. I am not surprised, given what you have told me that his face is the one you project."

 

"I'm sorry," Flint says plainly, and something like surprise goes over her face before being swiftly removed. "If I had known, I would have never gone under."

 

Madi shakes her head just a little. "You don't have to lie to me," she says. "I know you would have either way, for him. I would have."

 

"But I would have told you," Flint says. "I could have - "

 

There's a knock on the door, and they both go still. Madi picks up her gun from the table just as quickly as Flint can rise. When the door doesn't burst open with a horde of angry projections, they look at each other. Another knock breaks their stare.

 

"If he's coming after you," Madi says, "You should stay back. Find John."

 

"He's after me," Flint argues as Madi goes to the door. "You won't be able to stop- "

 

She opens the door, and stops, her posture going slack. Flint closes the distance between them, just as Madi steps back so that he can see.

 

A young boy peers up at the two of them. His hair is cropped short, his limbs bony and awkwardly long, but Flint recognizes the eyes immediately. He's looking between him and Madi - interested as any child his age would, but there's a specific sharpness that is at odds with the youth of his face in his eyes.

 

The look is one that makes something inside him ache with sadness for a moment, that someone that young is already that careful, even as they dart between the two of them.

 

But after another unspeakably long moment, something in the boy's eyes lights up. "I know you," the boy says in a lighter voice than he would've expected, “I know both of you."

 

"John," Madi manages to utter, which is more than Flint can deal with. The ache increases as his mind whirls, just taking it all in -

 

He pushes it all aside, though, as the boy begins to look the slightest bit uneasy - and Flint gets down on his knees before he realizes it, so he's level with the boy's eyes. "Silver," he says, watching closely for a reaction, "Is that you?"

 

The boy just frowns at him. "That's not my name," he says. "But I _know_ you. Where have you been?"

 

"We've been looking for you," Flint tells him, and he swallows, ever so aware of how the boy's cataloging every single expression on his face before he ventures, "How long have you been here?"

 

"Long enough," the boys says, and after another long moment, he seems satisfied with whatever Flint presents to him at that moment - passing judgment on the two of them, it seems.

 

Flint thinks of Silver - _his_ Silver, the Silver he knows - across a dark room, the light casting on his face. The gun in his hand, the one he had used to kill for him - the seemingly unreadable expression he had as he made another decision.

 

Now, the boy looks back up at Madi. "You should close that door. They're coming up the stairs,” he says.

 

 

•••

 

 

"This isn't what I expected," Madi says, more to Flint, still looking at Silver - or who would become Silver - almost sounding like she's in awe. “He looks just like him.”

 

"Hey," the boy says, looking a little peeved, blinking up at them. "I _am_ him.”

 

"We know that," Flint says, trying and failing to sound light about it.

 

At the same time, Madi says, “We’re just unused to this. I hope you can forgive us.“

 

The boy smiles up at her. The breath catches in Flint's throat now, and Madi looks similarly stunned as he feels. "That's alright,” he says, “I know you must be worried.”

 

“Do you mind if I have a word with him?“ Madi asks the boy, tilting her head over to Flint. When Silver nods, she says, "We'll be right over there - it’ll just take a moment.”

 

 

They step back, leaving the boy standing near the door as he takes in the sparse furniture in the room. Flint watches as he rocks back on his feet a little, scratching his arm in a gesture that would nearly be casual, if his eyes didn’t flit over to them every few seconds, or he never turned his back to the door.

 

“I don’t understand this,” Madi murmurs from beside him. She touches his forearm to get his attention, and he drags his eyes away from Silver. "What is this?"

 

"It's him," Flint tells her. “It has to be."

 

“He’s so young,” Madi says quietly. “Why would he be so young?”

 

Flint swallows. “A defensive mechanism? Some way to protect himself? It could be anything along those lines.”

 

"A child?" Madi shakes her head just a little, a line growing on her forehead. "How is that _protection?_ "

 

It’s a question that he doesn’t have an answer for, but it doesn’t seem like Madi’s expecting that. “I think he went under again," Flint says. They've both been thinking of, and given the look on her face, neither of them wanted it to be said out loud. "You know how it happens, how you leave remnants of yourself behind on the dream. He could be something that Silver left behind, something that he once was.”

 

“If he went down again,” Madi says, “He’s at risk of going into limbo. If we follow him down again, we’ll be at risk too, with the dream that deep. Time moves exponentially more slow, and we could be trapped there, forget we even went down in the first place.“

 

“That’s why only one of us will follow,” Flint says. “The other stays here.”

 

He speaks in a low tone, as not to catch Silver’s attention from across the room, but as Madi seems about to interject, he continues, “I’ll go.”

 

“Flint - “

 

“You know that decision is by no means that I am uncertain in your capability,” Flint tells her. “One of us needs to stay here, keep him safe from the projections we’ve led here. It could be a part of him here, after all, protecting where he went under. We could set a timer, yes, but to be honest, I would prefer if you were watching my back up here.”

 

Madi’s frown doesn’t quite recede, but she doesn’t seem outraged, either. She looks directly at him when she says, “And you’ve done this before.”

 

“I have tried,” Flint agrees. After another long moment, she gives the tiniest nod, and he wills the tension out of his shoulders before he clears his throat. Silver looks back at them, looking rather patient for someone so young.

 

“Solomon,” he says, carefully trying, ”Is that your name?”

 

“No,” the boy says, but he walks back to them anyways. “But people have called me that before, too.”

 

“Can you show us where you are?” Madi asks softly.

 

He takes a step closer to them. “I can make him come here,” the boy says, and both Madi and Flint move to the side as he steps between them, then, looking across the room.

 

The boy stops right in front of a wall, reaching for a handle that hadn’t been there before, the metal a dull gleam against the whitewashed surface. Flint can hear Madi’s small intake of breath.

 

At his touch, an outline of a closet door appears before their very eyes, stretching wide in front of him, but he doesn’t open it.

 

“He’s in there,” the boy says, not looking at them. “But I don’t think he’s doing well.”

 

“We can take care of him,” Flint says, and both he and Madi go to either side of him. “Do you trust us?”

 

The boy doesn’t answer, just blinks once more, and he opens the door. 

 

Instead of a closet, they find themselves staring into another room. There’s a folding chair in the center, a silver suitcase on the ground, and a man sitting on the very edge of it. 

 

Both Flint and Madi move forward in an instant, going to either side of Silver once again. He’s perfectly still except for the shallow rise and fall of his chest, his face lax ins his sleep. On closer examination, his feet float slightly above the ground, bobbing ever so slightly like he’s in a pool of water.

 

Madi cradles his head as Flint checks the PASIV connection in his arm, keeping his fingers around the back of his forearm even as he looks at the screen on the inside of the case. “He’s been under for some time,” Flint tells her, his voice rough. “The machine’s already on auxiliary power.”

 

“How long?” Madi asks, and Flint’s fingers clench ever so slightly on Silver’s arm. He can feel his clothes move slightly on him, his hair lifting a little off his scalp - the gravity must be different in here, like they’re all underwater. 

 

In his head, the calculations come coldly. Given the time in this dream layer, Silver's been down another layer for weeks to his perception - and that's being generous. “I'll have more time to find that out down there," Flint says, drawing up another line from the PASIV. “Keep him safe up here.”

 

He remembers the boy at the same time as Madi, but when they both turn to look, the boy is gone. The door to the other room is once again closed, and it’s like he was never there.

 

Flint forces himself to move, turns back to roll up his sleeve and prepare the cannula. He considers what to say - but when he meets Madi’s eye, ready to go under, he finds that the words just aren’t there.

 

Madi nods, maybe for both of them. She lets go of Silver’s head to kneel at the PASIV, as Flint settles on the floor, feeling it sway just a little underneath him. “Stay safe,” she says, and she hits the button -

 

 

 

•••

 

THEN

 

 

“You should park in an actual lot sometime,” Silver says, sliding into the backseat of the shiny limo, “Might show you how the rest of us live. Keep some quarters in the cup holders - “

 

“Somehow, I don’t think you’re included in that group, exactly,” Max says. Her driver starts the car again, smoothly leaving behind the line of cars that had backed up when he had stopped in the middle of the freeway. The police car which had first stopped the flow of traffic for them gets smaller and smaller in the distance, as Silver glances out the tinted windows.

 

“The price of Somnacin rather puts you in a tax bracket separate from me, now, doesn’t it?” Silver asks, the flashing lights disappearing as they go down a small hill. “This is a nice ride - “

 

“Mr. Silver, I’m on my way to the airport,” Max says, sounding just measured enough to not be impatient. “I do hope you do not intend to follow me onto my plane.”

 

“I have some questions for you about a job,” Silver says.

 

“Did the payment not come through?” Max asks, glancing down at her phone when the screen lights up. “Jack used a new bank, but I’m sure it will be settled - “

 

“That’s not what I meant,” Silver says. “I’m talking about that personal job that you did for me after Berringer.”

 

“You found issue with the papers I gave you?”

 

“More like more questions from them,” Silver says. He stretches out his legs, feels the mechanical joint pulling at his skin a little. “I found that Berringer’s personal finances had a gap in them, one that I hoped you’d elucidate just a bit more.”

 

“And I told you, likely some offshore account,” Max says. “Not uncommon for tax purposes, as I’m sure _you’re_ aware. But I’m sure you did not insist on meeting me to talk about that.”

 

“I used my own connections to trace that gap back to its source,” Silver says, “And it brought me some shell company owned by none other than the infamous Woodes Rogers, one that Berringer had committed quite an amount of money to.”

 

“So he hasn’t seen to consolidating his finances.”

 

“But the dates on the papers establishing it are from too far back, before Berringer and Rogers ever worked together,” Silver tells her. “I think the money’s in Berringer’s name, but it doesn’t belong to him, not anymore. They’re from before Rogers ran for office before he came into a vast sum of funding by marrying Eleanor Guthrie - not too badly dented by the divorce, either - “

 

“Unless you mean to antagonize me by bringing her name into this conversation, I suggest you get to the point,” Max says, surprisingly sharp. He’s not surprised he’s hit a nerve.

 

“It was Eleanor who I contacted,” Silver says. Now he reaches into his jacket, pulls out a file. Holding it up, he says, “She’s very much still in love with you. Not that she would want me to tell you that - “

 

“Silver.”

 

“But more importantly, Eleanor gave me these documents from the shell company,” Silver says, “And I think you might be able to tell me whose names these are.”

 

“Aliases?” Max takes the file from him.

 

“They’re not particularly creative in their code, that much I know,” Silver says, “But I suppose that’s the point of an alias after all, so people like me don’t instantly find out - “

 

“The signee here, it’s most likely Peter Ashe,” Max interrupts, and his blood runs cold. “And the cosigner - that must have been Alfred Hamilton.”

 

“Alfred Hamilton,” Silver repeats, focus narrowing down to the piece of paper in her hands. There’s a small part of him that wants to laugh, but it’s crushed by something much heavier. “Max, are you absolutely sure of this?”

 

“I am,” Max says, and she glances up. “Why are you interested in these? They’re just receipts.”

 

“Can you tell me what those receipts mean?” Silver asks her insistently. “On the next page?”

 

“They’re some monthly payments,” Max tells him after a moment, as she scans the text, “From a medical company attached to a hospital in Savannah - a few salaries, all low level. Eleanor thought these were vital to your interests?”

 

“Savannah,” Silver whispers nearly under his breath. “Christ.”

 

“I don’t see the purpose of these,” Max says, eyeing him now. “But given the expression on your face, I would think that they do mean something to you. Why are you interested in this connection between Hamilton and Berringer?”

 

“Max,” Silver says, “I’m going to go see if a coincidence is indeed that."

 

 

 

•••

 

NOW

 

 

 

He can hear the sea.

 

Flint finds himself on an abandoned beach, his shoes sinking into grayish sand. The scent of the salt is heavy around him, settling in his nose and mouth as soon as he breathes in. He hadn’t realized it before, but the previous layer of the dream had lacked wind -but now, the air reminds him of its existence, breezes around him, running through his fingers.

 

As he looks around, there’s nothing except for the brackish-colored shrubs dotting the sand away from the waterline, the sand slowly turning into low dunes that shift before him. The water rushes in again as the waves crest, but the speed is too slow like it’s video footage that’s been slowed down before his very eyes.

 

Maybe that’s why it feels familiar, being here - like he’s seeing a memory or something that he just can’t quite recall, the longer he stands there.

 

Once again, Flint reaches into his jacket on instinct, feels the ridge of the book. He doesn’t check it, not now, but the weight of it keeps his mind focused as he thinks, _Where are you_?

 

He feels a nudge at his calf, then. Looking down, a rowboat has emerged from the waves like it has been floating there all along, the bow brushing up against him. There are two paddles, and Flint picks one of them up, feels the coarse wood pull a little at his palms already.

 

He squints out to the ocean, then gets into the boat. He thinks that he should be staying close to the shore, hugging the land, maybe walking into the distance - but instead, he begins to row out.

 

•••

 

 


End file.
